


Catacombs

by hexagram



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Colombian History, Freckles, Jean's Hot French Accent, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Museum Porn, Recreational Drug Use, Thief Jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexagram/pseuds/hexagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean, Marco, and the history of Cartagena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. Jean Baptiste Ducasse

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by the video game Uncharted 3: Drake's Deception. There's a lot of history and research and weird, Colombian names, but that's the fun of it for me!

At the turn of the century, the historic city carried its beauty into the new age. Cartagena seats on the Northern coast of Colombia, secreting within a history rich enough to put its neighboring counties to shame. It was founded in 1533 by Spanish commander Pedro de Heredia; upon conquering, the Spaniards roamed and robbed the tombs of gold, and once there wasn't any left, left the ruin to establish farming and agriculture. Yet through more than 275 years under the Spanish rule, after a number of failed conquerings and reconstructions of the economic system, the city was standing on its feet into 2000.

Jean Kirschtein didn't belong here. His French ancestry was no match to the pure, wise Spanish blood running through the established city.

Yet here, crouching under the stairwell of Palacio de la Inquisición, he listened in to every word the tour guide was speaking. The pack of tourists followed, disinterested at this point because they couldn't use their cameras in this area of the museum.

"The Raid on Cartagena in 1697 by Sir Bernard Desjean, Baron de Pointis and Jean Baptiste Ducasse was a politically-motivated, all-out invasion. The political purpose behind the invasion was somewhat undermined by Ducasse who brought his soldiers with a plan to steal, but ended with pirates and thieves destroying the city..."

Jean let out a scoff, the smile seated permanently on his face as he leaned his head back against the wall. His eyes were closed, imagining the destruction like a movie behind his eyelids.

"The entry to the city was hindered by the recently finished first stage of walls and forts, and the invasion was costly. While Desjean had asked for 250,000 Spanish reales in ransom, Ducasse stayed only few months and dishonored the baron's promise to respect the churches and holy places."

"Ducasse left the inhabitants with nothing," Jean finished the guide's sentence, mouthing out the words in sync with the smooth voice that was speaking out loud. That was the end of the tour. The promise of a less historically-heavy visit to the art museum left the toursists scattering into the next showroom, thus emptying this one. 

Jean bit down on his lip, pushing off the floor to stand up, careful not to hit his head on the stairs above him as he did so. He peeked around the corner, sneaking between the ajar doors into the exhibit. Fumbling with metal in his hand, almost wishing himself luck, he breathed in the ancient sent of artifacts hidden behind modern glass. Scowling within himself at the locks glaring in his face, he approached the furthermost stand in the left corner of the room.

The sun's glare reflected off the glass, blurring what was hiding behind it, but Jean knew perfectly. He memorized it because he has seen it numerous times before. Alone. In books. The map.

The map of the city according to Ducasse before and after the walls were established. Two connected, sacred pieces of parchment, in Jean's eyes, of course. It was almost an obsession how he salivated at the sight.

He crouched down in front of it, feeling around the lock and checking for any sound system. The museum didn't seem to think that it was that significant, lucky for Jean. With a concentrated look his sweaty palms fumbled with the pick in his hand, inserting it into the lock. Two, three turns with the help of another metal pick.

"Finally you get around to it."

His heart dropped to his feet just like the metal slipped from his hands. Sharply he stood up, turning around to face what he thought his worst nightmare.

"You always listen in to my presentations, but never show your face."

Jean furrowed his eyebrows in ridiculous confusion. It was just the two of them in the room; him and the freckle-faced tour guide. The wind blew the curtains into the room, so the guide walked over to close them, adorning a smile on his face.

Jean looked around again, expecting the guards to barge in. Or at least for the man to call security. Anything. Anything but small talk.

"Sorry, did I startle you?" the boy asked with a chuckle, pushing his black hair back over his head although it fell around his face once again.

"Uh..." Jean finally managed to utter from his dry throat. "Aren't you going to... you know..."

"I probably should," the man shrugged, not shaking that stupid smile off his face. He didn't make a move to report the incident yet though. "But I won't if you tell me why you want that map."

"You're the tour guide. Shouldn't you know history?" Jean retorted. Partly because he wanted to see if he already knew, and partly because if the man didn't know, he really didn't want the ridiculousness of trying to explain it.

"You know the history in this museum better than I do, don't you?" he shrugged, twisting his foot on the floor in an embarrassed gesture before looking back up at Jean.

"How do you..."

"It's probably stupid of me to remember this," he interrupted, speaking faster, with a shakier tone but a light-hearted attitude. "But ten years ago, it was you, wasn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jean turned to the side, rolling up the paper even though it gave a few cracks because of how old and dried out it was.

"Oh..." the guide let out, his lips slightly opened in unexpected rejection. Finally coming to his senses and seeing the perfect opportunity, Jean breezed past him, tucking the map inside his shirt. "Wait!"

"So now you decide to do something," Jean rolled his eyes, not turning back but making a straight line towards the exit, something he should have done the second he saw the man in the room with him. "Yes, I'm a dirty thief, yes, I have my reasons, and no, you probably won't understand. Call the fuckers, I don't care, because they won't catch me even if they try."

Before slipping between the two doors he turned around, sending a smirk and a salute in the direction of the guide who at the final second started walking after Jean.

"I want to know why!" he heard the guide call out behind him. But Jean was out, past the people crowding, running, heart racing. He didn't need anything except this moment of triumph. The ancient document in his hand. He kissed it happily, the roll of paper starting to feel the sweat off his palm; Jean laughed, making his way up the ladders to the rooftops.

 

+++

 

He watched the boy hold onto his father's hand. His eyes were watching, his father's weren't. Wide, honey eyes focused on the unskilled hands of the taller boy. Jean could see the questions mapped out in the boy's face. Why is the glass open? Why do you have that paper? Why is it crumbling in your hands?

Jean stood wide-eyed and frozed, silently begging for the other eleven year-old to not shout out. Not get him noticed. Two more seconds of silence and he'd be back out on the street, but with the artifact. That's all he needed.

The boy's mouth opened, but in a surprised gasp, somehow understanding. Without another second of thought, he smiled widely; joyous, narrowed eyes followed Jean as he escaped between the stands that were much taller than him. 

The brown-eyed boy let go of his father's hand, unnoticed, as he walked over to the empty glass and shut the see-through door, before returning to his father who was too entranced in the conversation with the museum owner to notice his son's movements.


	2. II. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot about Jean's past and present. A lot.

Weeks have passed since the theft. And much to Jean's dismay, he was dragged out from his dirty hole of a residence by the obligation of real work. One hand pulling at his shoe, the other leaning on the wall to keep some kind of balance, Jean glanced at the clock by his bed -- a mattress on the floor, actually, although neatly tucked in -- gritting his teeth at the discovery that he was late. He knew he wouldn't get scolded though.

"Shit!" he growled out as he tripped on a shoe, two sizes smaller than his, making way into the kitchen to pick up the apartment keys.

"On the hook," his roommate's bald head looked up from his morning serving of cereal, talking through the clump of chewed food in his mouth.

With a grunt in acknowledgement, Jean walked over to the wall hooks by the apartment's exit, grabbing one of the two keys hanging there. His had a tiny bottle of sand as a keychain, along with two picklocks. 

"Actual job?" he asked again, now having swallowed most of the cereal.

"Actual job, Connie. Don't touch the map," Jean pointed to his roommmate after having laced his shoe. He tucked the keys in his pocket before swinging the door open and running down the stairs and outside into the hot Colombian weather.

Constantino, Connie for short, was one of Jean's friends since the times the latter scavenged for food and slept on the streets. Connie had been one of those rebellious kids who, although he respected his family, really liked to go against their word. So when Jean in his teenage years stole many more items than a French admiral's map, Connie was his occasional partner in crime, although he never actually needed the items that they stole.

Jean, on the other hand, raised himself in crime and poverty ever since the disappearance of his parents. Renowned French archaeologists, the Kirschtein family traveled to Colombia to explore the coastal ruins of the country. They eventually ended up in Cartagena, the final destination of their trip, but as the story is told, as they dug into the Tomb of the Cospique on eastern coast of the exterior bay, the ancient stone collapsed on them. They were declared dead in 1995 when Jean was 10 years old.

For the majority of his teenagehood Jean refused to believe that his parents were dead. He tried to find the tomb to prove it for himself, but failed to do so due to lack of experience and equipment. He was only a child, after all, a child ready to be handed over to the Spanish law enforcements. An orphan with French citizenship, he was at risk of being deported, but something about the city made him stick around.

"Jean, boy, late again," an old woman patted her tiny fist on his shoulder in a weak, scolding manner.

"Sorry, Ana Maria, won't happen again," he smiled sheepishly, already set on getting to work by picking up the box of bananas and setting it on the shaky stand.

"Oh, I sure know it will," she shook her finger, wiping the sweat off her wrinkled forehead and sitting on the chair behind the line of vegetables. "But that precious French accent of yours makes me weak at the knees," she slapped his butt as he walked by her to unload more of the cargo.

Jean's mouth stretched in a toothy grin, starting to assemble Ana Maria's part of the market. The old woman was a farmer along with her husband, but because of his medical conditions and old age he is unable to help Ana Maria with sale in the city as much as he used to, so he stays on the farm on the outskirts of the city. Ana Maria hired Jean five years ago, after his countless attempts of getting a real job. The woman was the only employer in the city to overlook his lack of citizenship.

Those wise, elderly eyes seemed to scope out everything that there was to know about Jean. She correctly guessed on his past as a thief and his obsession with history, but he refused to let her know that even though she payed him a generous amount of money for his work, it still wasn't enough to survive.

He stole what he could carry, and Connie took care of the rest.

But more important than money, the woman provided him with the motherly support that he lacked since 1989. She would occasionally send him home with vegetables, always calling out after him to wash them thoroughly and give some to 'that tiny bald man.' And that is how Jean was forced to learn how to cook.

Working into dusk, Jean's quick, skilled hands were working on fixing up the wooden stand. All the other farmers around them were packing up while Jean persisted on fixing the cracking wood that would soon no longer be able to hold the crops.

"Aw, shit!" he yelped out under his breath as the splinter charged into his skin. He stuck the finger into his mouth, vigorously sucking on it before the piece of wood dove deeper in.

"Come on now, sweetie, you gotta go home," Ana Maria patted his back as she looked over to where Jean was sitting before leaning onto her knees to help herself unfold her back to stand up. She groaned slightly, putting a hand on her back and cracking it with a soft bend.

"Tomorrow, I'll finish it, okay?" Jean gave her a determined look before getting to folding up and putting away the stand. The wrinkles on the corners of her mouth rose up in a smile as she watched the man roll his shirt's sleeves up his shoulders to complete today's day of work.

 

+++

 

Jean loved dusk. The colors painting the sky almost had a certain smell to them, the feeling of completeness. This is when the city was emptying, the residents hid in their stone houses, shutting their windows and locking out the outside world. This is when Jean felt like he had the most control over his life, when he was alone in a large, empty city. 

Pulling himself up on the ladder, Jean climbed up onto the rooftop of the building neighboring the museum. Using windows and other imperfections in the wall he carefully made his way to the roof. It wasn't above other buildings surrounding it, but if looking from a certain point, he could see a glimpse of the ocean and the colors adorning it.

"You're saying it just disappeared?!"

Just before Jean had the chance to swing his legs over the edge of the rooftop, an angry male voice interrupted the perfect silence surrounding the building. Cautiously he peeked over the edge, he didn't see anything except a balcony a story below him and two tops of heads.

"This part of the museum is your responsibility during your shift, Marco, you should have prevented this."

"Maybe if security spent more time watching the door than sleeping off their hangovers then-"

"Don't think that your dad's status will continue to enforce yours, Marco. The items in this museum are more valuable than the lives of your entire family."

Jean felt the tense silence hang between the two men. He held his breath by putting a hand over his mouth and nose, praying for the conversation to end. A long sigh sounded.

"I don't want to see this happen again, understand?" Footsteps followed the sentence, getting quieter and quieter as they lead into the building.

"It won't, Nicholas," Marco mumbled under his breath. Jean peeked over the edge again, watching as the tour guide looked over the horizon, moving to the left to get a view of the ocean. The man sighed, making Jean smile for some reason, before following the museum owner back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea where I'm going with this, oh God.


	3. III. Focus

"So the map that Jean Ducasse drew and left here in Cartagena does not match to the one he reported to Louis XIV when he came back to France. In fact, right here..."

Jean's finger was following the line of the wall, the old ink already smudged on the crumbling parchment as Jean demonstrated his discovery. Although the listener clearly held no interest.

"..What does this look like, Connie? It's goddamn ink. Like, new ink. Like, he drew it in there after he sketched the entire map. But how much later? Days? Weeks? When he came back? It doesn't-"

"Jean, shit, this is fucking cool and all, but if I don't pass this calculus final, I'm going to have my ass handed to me by my parents," Connie's tired eyes looked sternly at him. His small hand wiped over his bald head in a nervous fashion, rubbing back and forth a couple of times, before dropping right next to Jean's on the map between them.

"Yeah, but do you see-"

"Final, Jean."

"We both know you're not going to pass anyway," Jean blew off Connie's distress, looking up at his friend with a smug smirk.

Connie stared at him with a pause, turning up his lips.

"Okay, that's true," he snapped his book shut with a loud clap.

The hum of the students surrounding started dying down, signaling the beginning of next block of classes. Finals time was the most stressful for University students, Jean noticed, because that was the time Connie and his friends were the crankiest and spent most of the time face-planted in books in a stuffed library.

Although Jean wasn't a student at the University of Cartagena, for obvious reasons, he liked to visit the campus to hang out with Connie and his friends when they had time; sometimes get into parties, although he didn't often attend them; or sometimes he'd use his age to pass as a student and use the library. He found the history section at the University to be much more extensive and impressive than at the city library.

"But so what, he drew some extra corners," Connie shrugged, shoving his book into his shoulder bag, finally gaining some slight interest in Jean's speech as was torn away from his studies. "Maybe it was a joke."

"It wasn't a joke!" Jean slammed his hand on the table, his face lighting up and smile seeming almost insane. "That means those parts of the walls that he discovered held something--something so important to Ducasse--that he didn't even want the fucking king to know. The king, dude, that shit was important back then."

"What did he find?" Connie asked with a frown, hanging the strap of the bag onto his shoulder.

"Exactly," Jean tapped the table once with his finger before leaning back in the chair. "What did he find?" Jean spread his arms in contemplation, infinitely proud of his discovery. "But knowing that Ducasse was a huge asshole, it was probably something very very valuable. Artifacts, relics, gold..."

Connie was just about to take off, but at that last statement he sat back down on his chair, his jaw open.

"You're kidding," he spoke before grinning. "Gold, yeah?"

"Yeah," Jean nodded. "You might not have to study another day of your life, Connie."

Connie let out a happy laugh at that, leaning forward with a glimmering admiration in his eyes as he looked at Jean.

"Shit, if this is it, Jean, if you're right, if this isn't another one of your shitty Yurbaco expeditions-"

"That was amateur shit," Jean rolled his eyes.

"-Then I could almost fucking kiss you."

"Yeah, you'll be kissing my ass for the rest of your life," Jean's grin was painting his entire face, a pride swelling in his chest as Connie approved his discovery. Jean felt like he was proving it to himself even more strongly now.

"Maybe wit is like a hereditary thing. Your ancestor was smart as hell," Connie said.

"Ancestry goes by last name, dumbass, not first."

Jean gathered his map carefully, wrapping it in masking paper before tucking it under his belt. As he did so, Connie stood up to greet his approaching friend, who always tended to make a loud entrance even though they were in the library.

"Ready to kick biology ass?" a cheerful, brown-haired girl stopped right at their table, slapped Connie's back, and greeted Jean with a wave of the hand as she wore a wide grin on her face.

"Shit," Connie started, his breath knocked out of his mouth. "Yeah. Walk with us?" He addressed Jean, who, having nothing better to do, followed them out of the library to Stone Bolivar, the Campus of Economics and Engineering. 

"I'll never stop asking why you're taking biology," Jean said nonchalantly, his eyes following a man passing by them in a hurry towards the Historic Center.

"Who knows, maybe I'll major in it?" he shrugged, rubbing the back of his head.

"You hate plants more than you hate math. Biology's not gonna happen," Sasha shoved his shoulder before pulling out something resembling a sandwich and taking a generous bite out of it.

"You have absolutely no faith in me," Connie retorted before attempting to knock the food from her hand, failing miserably because he was a few inches shorter than her. "One more hour before lunch, you're stronger than this, Sasha."

"Fight me," she shrugged, swallowing the bite. "Speaking of items essential for surviving, Jean, do you think you can pick some bud up for me from Ymir? I have to cram for finals all week, and I seriously need to rewind after all that."

"Sure," Jean shrugged, kicking an empty bottle out of the way towards the trashcan by the courtyard benches. He accepted the cash from Sasha before they went separate way, Connie and Sasha barely making it on time before the class started. Jean turned around, taking his time to walk back to the library, making a short detour to Cloister of St. Augustine Campus to visit Ymir.

+++

"Fuckin' Sasha," Ymir rolled her eyes as he howled out a laugh. It was evidently an expected visit; Jean took the tiny bag from Ymir's hand and stuffed it into his pocket.

Jean leaned back on the railing of the stairs, watching the clouds get darker, bringing the obnoxious humidity and rain, which meant slippery roofs. Jean's least favorite situation.

He loved Ymir's company; he knew he wouldn't be returning to the library anytime soon since the girl decided to skip class once again. The two had a completely casual relationship; Jean knew her through Connie, which is how he knew most people in the University, but out of all the people he has met here, he felt the calmest with her. Their personalities blended well, and they both had those hidden tempers, which is why Jean felt like he could understand Ymir the best.

The smell of smoke lingered around them, something that seemed to follow the tan-skinned girl wherever she went. Hearing the click of a lighter, Jean turned to see Ymir light a cigarette in her mouth.

"I thought Christa wanted you to quit?" Jean asked, knowing full well the relationship the two girls had with each other. Although he couldn't say that he found it adorable how the two clung to each other, he did love seeing a hardass like Ymir act soft around the blonde.

"Yeah, well, she don't rule my fucking life," Ymir shrugged, letting the smoke pool at her lips before blowing it away from her face.

After a comfortable silence between them, Ymir spoke.

"Want to make a delivery for me?"

"Hell fucking no," Jean scoffed, looking at Ymir with eyebrows raised. "You know how those always go."

"But you look so hot with bruises, Jean," Ymir smirked an almost sadistic smile. "Besides, I don't buy from those assholes anymore, I swear. New guys. Right by the North wall."

Jean's attention sparked at that last moment. He tilted his head, fighting an inner battle between whether to be really stupid or completely stupid.

"Shit, alright," Jean said with a long sigh. Not like he had anything better to do; Mondays were the days that Ana Maria spent back at the farm and didn't visit the city.

"Yes! Thanks, handsome," she threw and arm around him, hugging his neck close to her side. She loosened her touch, but didn't let go as she continued speaking. "Be careful, though, the mayor's been plenty paranoid lately, striking down crime like no other. Nothing you have to worry about though," she stuck her tongue out, fully aware of the life Jean lead and what effect this situation would bring to his lifestyle.

"How do you know that? You don't make any deliveries yourself," Jean questioned her, an uneasy feeling already settling at the bottom of his stomach. Even knowing that Ymir was always on top of the political news of the city, he didn't expect her to meddle in those affairs herself.

"His kid told me. Really doesn't like his dad, for some reason, even though he's paying his University fees and got him that nice-paying job at the museum. I really don't understand royalty," she chuckled, stubbing the cigarette out on the bottom of her boot.

"Shit, Marco's the mayor's son?" Jean blurted out, speaking more to himself than to Ymir.

"Yeah, you know him?" Ymir asked, the slight surprise shown in the arch of her eyebrows.

Jean looked at her before his eyes trailed off towards the Cartagena skyline, the sun proudly shining right above the buildings.

"Nah," he shrugged, feeling her lean away from him. "Just heard the name, that's all."

+++

"And here we see the compass of Diego de Nicuesa, one of the first explorers of Cartagena, although he was not the one who founded the city. It is said that the compass is cursed, as the conquistador was found dead clutching it to his chest, even though the cause of his death was announced to be disease."

Accidentally stepping on the foot of a blonde American woman, Jean let out a hushed apology, cursing himself for being careless. He tried his best to blend in with the group of foreigners walking aimlessly around the museum. Some of them yawned during Marco's presentation, which Jean found to be deeply annoying, because he found the history of Cartagena not only interesting but important, having heard it numerous times over.

He stopped to glance over the compass, immediately recognizing the foreign shine under the fabricated dust of the metal.

After the presentation came to a halt and tourists were allowed to wander by themselves, Jean turned to Marco, feeling the man's eyes on him, flickering between the compass and the thief. As Marco approached, Jean realized that the guide didn't seem like he wanted to make any rash or loud movements.

"Relax, I'm not here to steal a fake," Jean rolled his eyes, tapping the glass carelessly with his finger. 

"How did you know?" Marco asked, but he didn't look surprised or astonished. More like his eyes showed off admiration, similar to Connie's earlier in the day. Jean tried not to be smug about it.

"That metal is not nearly rusty enough to have been used in 1500s. Also the scratches look more like half-assed sandpaper. Tell dad to try better," Jean smirked, a hint of bitterness framing the words.

Marco's deep eyes bore into Jean's to the point where the latter had to look away. Marco did also after that, letting out a sigh as his shoulders drooped. On his lips danced a weak smile.

"Maybe if you inherited this museum it would be much more authentic," Jean offered before kicking himself mentally, realizing that he was speaking too much. It got in the way of him trying to seem like a cold-hearted criminal. Besides, he wasn't here to make friends or conversation.

"Why are you here?" Marco asked. Jean couldn't tell if the guide was happy about his showing up, but the way his mouth twitched into a surpressed hinted that maybe he was. "Did you even pay to get in?"

Jean stared.

"Figures," Marco dropped his head to laugh, looking back around the museum to check what the tourists were doing.

"Here," Jean raised his shirt, taking note of how Marco's eyes jumped to his torso, leaning back in surprise, as Jean took out a rolled piece of parchment from behind his belt. "I felt kind of bad."

He handed the browned paper to Marco as he dumbfounded man stared at him. His kind eyes jumped from the paper to Jean's face, a cautious hand reaching out to grasp the edge. He unrolled it, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he gazed at it.

"The map of Jean Baptiste?" Marco asked, now smiling brightly at Jean, who couldn't help but grin back.

"No, a really good fake of the map of Jean Baptiste," Jean smirked, seeing Marco's smile fall but not in complete disappointment. "Come on, you really think I'd stalk this map for years just to hand it back after that brilliant escape?"

"You had half of the building's security chase you down the street."

"I still escaped, didn't I?" Jean retorted, not liking the way sarcasm sounded from Marco's lips. "Anyway, just say, 'Thanks so much for saving my ass, Jean, I owe you one,'"

"Jean," Marco's eyes lit up again. "So that's your name."

So much for staying incognito.

"Okay, what do you need?" Marco asked, still holding the map carefully in his hands.

"Anything the museum has on Jean Baptiste Ducasse that's not on display," he said, and before Marco could respond with a rejection, Jean interrupted. "And don't tell me that everything is already on display, I know the museum has old artifacts in the basement."

"Why don't you just go yourself?" Marco asked.

"Because I don't have the key, duh," Jean rolled his eyes, looking down on the freckled man before him. "Besides, you owe me now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that ridiculous break.  
> I was reading [this amazing fic which everyone should definitely check out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/991568/chapters/1957412) and was inspired to write again!


	4. IV. Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crashes through the window*  
> *throws chapter*  
> *backflips out*

"Just so you know, if we get caught I'm saying that you're a tresspasser," Marco said, sliding the key into the lock of the gated entrance to the museum basement. He methodically twisted it back and forth, the rusty metal seeming to cause him some difficulties, before he turned the key just right and they heard the click of it unlocking. The sound made Jean's heart jump in anticipation, he licked his lips, the look in his eyes begging Marco's hands to open the entrance.

"Whatever, nothing new," Jean shrugged, trying to act as nonchalant as possible, trying to deceive both Marco and himself, putting his hands into his pockets. He finally admitted in his thoughts that he was getting impossibly anxious with excitement; sweat collected in the crooks of his palms and fingers fidgeted, which is why he hid them away from Marco's sight.

Marco didn't say anything at first. Putting a hand on the bars of the gate, he briefly turned to give an examining look to Jean, pursing his lips together. Jean raised his eyebrows.

"What?" he asked.

"Damn thief," Marco said, yet seemed like he was struggling to make his words sound harsh or reprimanding. Jean decided that he overall just wasn't an intimidating person. Those freckles did not help either. "I can't even begin to think how much money you owe the museum."

"Boo fucking hoo, I don't think that you guys are short on money," Jean's mouth twisted in a cocky-ass grin before he put his hand over Marco's and pushed the gate door open himself, literally taking matters into his own hands. A wind whipped Marco in the face following Jean as he stepped by into the basement, walking with slow, calculating steps right down the middle.

Behind him Marco flipped on a switch, turning on the two weak, dusty lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. Immediately moths started circling the new light in a dangerous dance, bumping into each other but never into the light.

Most of the artifacts in the basement were covered in cloths that had a variation of holes eaten into them, and smaller items were wrapped in newspaper. Three large bookcases lined the wall at the end, but they were also covered up by a dirty white curtain so the contents were hidden from sight. Jean looked around, forcing his mouth closed after realizing how it dropped in awe. Every expectation he had about these hidden remains were tossed out his ear; this was much more extensive than he even imagined. His mouth watered at the thought of how much content was under those cloths and papers, how many secrets. He walked over to what seemed like a covered up totem, at least getting a starting point. He pulled off the dusty cloth, revealing a thick, wooden statue, Jean's height, in a much better condition than Jean expected. It stared at him with wide eyes and gaping mouth with tiny tongue. 

"The Aztecs... before Tenochtitlan," Jean whispered under his nose, reaching out his hand to touch the creepy eye of the totem. "Fuckin' hell-"

"Impressive," Marco whispered next to him, whose presence Jean simply forgot to acknowledge for the past five minutes. "You know, for a thief."

"How much of this is real?" Jean asked, ignoring the compliment and the annoying, repetitive insult within Marco's words.

"If it was fake, would it be under a lock?" Marco replied, a smile holding up his answer. "The French explorers are over there."

"Shh, hold on," Jean waved a hand in front of Marco without bringing his attention to the man, his eyes still jumping from one artifact to another as he continued peeking under the sheets. 

"I owe you a tour, not a sleepover," Marco walked behind Jean, letting out a shaky laugh. Paranoia took its hold over Marco and forced him to keep glancing back at the entrance, the furrow on his brow marked clearly. Probably should have closed the gate.

"Just..." Jean finally glanced back at him with an annoyed sigh, loose hand balling up into a fist as he brought himself under control. "Sorry, it's not every day that you walk into a goddamn tomb."

Marco laughed at that. He had the whitest teeth that Jean had ever seen, but with the brightness blossoming on Marco's mouth Jean still wondered just why did Marco already have wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. But then again, dealing with tourists day to day probably shortened his life span by at least five years. Disguising a rising laugh in a cough, Jean glanced at Marco awkwardly before shuffling over to the far corner of the room where Marco said the French explorers should be. There was a short bookshelf leaning on the wall, which Jean only noticed as he came closer. Ripping the cloth off he was met with open boxes lining the shelves. 

Jean's mouth widened maniacally as his grabby hands started shifting and searching through the boxes. Although his palms were sweating, his touch was accurate and steady as he sifted through rolled up documents, old stones and gems, as well as rusty equipment.

"What exactly are you looking for?" Marco asked as he leaned on the table right next to the shelf. Attempting to ignore the question, Jean continued annihilating and sweeping through the material at hand. Marco crossed his arms, his eyes following Jean's fingertips with a temporary confusion.

"No offense, but this isn't time for small talk," Jean brushed him off, not tearing his eyes away from his mission.

"I can help you," Marco said defensively, dropping his arms at his sides before standing up and moving a box that was already rejected by Jean to the side. Another one he set on the floor. After not getting a response he offered again. "I know this museum, Jean."

For a second Jean realized how strange it was to hear Marco say his name.

"This could go much faster if you would just let me participate," Marco insisted.

"You are so distracting," Jean finally looked up, glaring at Marco, whose eyes melted from determination to something resembling victory. He probably should have chosen his words better. "If I tell you, how do I know you're not going to take this away from me?"

There was silence among the floating dust as Jean's hands finally stopped moving. He placed them on the sides of the box, leaning towards Marco with daring eyes.

"I need this," Jean's intimidating gaze was sharpening by the millisecond, as if a cloud of grey circled his retina.

"Do you really think that I need whatever Jean Baptiste found?" Marco asked, his eyes jumping between Jean's. He raised his eyebrows, and Jean realized how much he hated the feeling of not having the upper hand in a situation.

"If you haven't noticed, we're playing from completely opposite sides of the field here," Jean pursed his lips, remembering the bitter truth of the heights that Marco descended from to be near Jean, who was doomed to crawl at the bottom. The two people that are not meant to associate in a society.

"Maybe opposite sides of the same coin?" Marco tried, biting the inside of his lip.

"You've got to be fucking joking me," Jean rolled his eyes at Marco's metaphor, deciding that he had better things to do than argue with this soft heart. He did not realize how minimal the space between them was until after he pulled back. Marco started laughing again, and Jean wondered whether he was mocking him or he was just easily amused. Shaking his head to move on from the heavy encounter, he decided to speak. "I need clues. Fragments, artifacts, documents, anything that hints at what could be in the catacombs of the Northern wall."

"The Northern wall?" Marco asked, the tone of his voice rising slightly as the topic peaked his interest. "You think the French built something there?"

"Huh?" Jean turned to look at Marco.

"Catacombs. That implies man-made, but the French wouldn't build them in Cartagena for worship, right?"

"But...maybe they would," Jean's eyes widened as his hands held onto a piece of parchment that he unfolded in the course of their conversation. He turned it to the left to have it the right side up, trying to make out the shapes and words in the dulling, fading ink. Marco stepped to stand next to him; he examined the document in Jean's hands.

"Guecha."

"The Warrior," Jean spoke over Marco's words. They glanced at each other with momentarily whitened eyes, both surprised at each other's knowledge.

"Pre-Colombian goddess of the Muisca mythology. What did Ducasse want to do with her?" Marco asked, looking at Jean in quest for an answer.

"Gold," his features rose immediately at his words. "It is said that her whole armor is made of gold."

Marco's features were fallen; he let out a breath before gathering himself in masking thought again. It was now evident that he was not after the gold--he didn't need it--but somehow Jean's conclusion from the clues on the paper wasn't what he was looking for. He didn't share in the happiness.

"Look here, the writing," Jean traced the words that wrapped around the detailed, intriguing drawing of the goddess and messily trailed off to the lower corner.

"It seems fairly recent. Look at the comparison of how faint the drawing is and the smudges on the writing," Marco's finger traced in rhythm with his words. 

"Shit, it's French," Jean scratched his head before throwing it back. "Wait, I speak French."

"What does it say?" Marco urged, his eyes finally lighting up, which Jean didn't notice as he was busy deciphering the messy handwriting on the document.

"Les ruines de la cote ont enferme l'or divin, le coeur sacre de la Terre. Garde par la reine du... Soleil, la colere de Sua doit etre rembourse par un... sacrifice de cramoisi, le flacon de cuivre aux pieds de... paradis."

"Holy sh-"

"The ruins on the coast have encased the divine gold, the sacred core of the Earth. Guarded by the queen of the Sun, the wrath of Sua must be repaid by a crimson sacrifice, the copper vial at the feet of paradise."

Jean turned to Marco again, grinning insanely as the words sunk into his brain, but was met with a sight of blushing Marco who was hiding a smile behind his hand. 

"The fuck are you smiling at?" his smile disappeared as he growled, annoyed at the fact that Marco seemed to be taking this less seriously than he was. Jean invested his whole life in this.

"Nothing, just..." Marco put his hand down and took a depth breath to calm his giddiness. Coughing into his fist, he continued back to the topic at hand. "The goddess of Sun, Sua. She's guarding the treasures of the Guecha?"

"That's what it sounds like," Jean said before he re-read the writing to himself.

"This is... strange," Marco stared. "This doesn't sound like a French admiral's notes."

"No, you're right," Jean nodded, scanning the words over again. "It seems like whoever wrote this copied it down from, hopefully, the tomb itself."

"It's not Ducasse, though!" Marco exclaimed, ripping the document from Jean's hands and pulling it closer to his face and reading over the words for what seemed like the millionth time, the language seeming like gibberish to him. "Look at the ink on your map and look at this one. This one is much more recent."

"Slow down, Marco, I'm starting to get a boner here-"

"Who in Cartagena would have gone back to the catacombs of the Northern wall, following Ducasse's trail, into the tomb that they guard?"

Jean's eyes darted around in thought before he took a sharp breath, his mind quietly crawling towards an idea that Jean wasn't sure he was ready to face.

"Jean-"

"Hey, why's the gate open?"

"Nicholas, who'a allowed down there?"

Immediately Marco and Jean whipped around towards the light pooling through the gate from the rest of the museum. Quick footsteps were bouncing off the walls and they were approaching the basement; Marco's eyes widened in horror as he started throwing the rest of the papers back into the boxes, frantically shoving them back into the shells. 

"Shit, we can't be seen here," Marco's voice shook.

"No one's allowed in the basement!" a shrill voice echoed down the corridor.

"Come on, we have to go!" Jean yanked on Marco's arm, at this point ready to flee by himself and leave Marco to take all the shit on his shoulders.

"But all this.. we have to- put it all back," Marco's attention kept jumping between the gate and his hands, his movements getting sloppier as the footsteps got louder.

"We need to leave!"

"He'll know I was-"

"Now, Marco!"

At that, Jean instinctively grabbed Marco's forearm and shoved him away from the collection that the French explorers left behind, leaving the shelves messy and exposed. He frantically looked around the room lit by whatever limited light there was, searching for a window or a fire escape from the basement.

"There's only one exit!"

"Of course there's only one fucking exit," Jean growled, fed up with his own shitty luck. He gave Marco a challenging glare before sprinting towards the gate, hoping to outrun the approaching forces. 

He stumbled out of the basement, a hand grabbing the gate to steady his momentum. He came right across the four men approaching with menacing looks, and Marco bumped into his back when he followed him out of the room.

"The thief!"

Without trying to think of some witty famous last words, Jean mentally prayed for luck to be on his side as he launched towards the opposing staircase, a situation scarily similar to a deja-vu as he ran away from the museum workers that have already chased him down in the past. As he looked over his shoulder to check on how successful the pursuit was, he was surprised to find Marco hot on his trail, the same expression on his face as Jean was wearing: The desperate need to get away.

"The balcony!" Marco exclaimed, pointing toward the window waiting at the end of the stairwell. The autumn wind in Colombia did not suffocate the city in humidity like it did in the summer, so it was normal for buildings to stand with open windows, bringing an air of freshness about--a circumstance that Jean used to his favor more often than not. And the The wind was blowing the curtains in, a welcoming sight for the two outcasts.

With swift movements, Jean jumped out the window, landing his feet on the metal balcony below. He used the fire escape staircase to move further up towards the roof, his comfort zone. Marco scrambled behind him, climbing outside instead of jumping, and tripping on the way upstairs. At the top of the fire escape, there was a gap between the platform that marked the end of the escape route and the ladder that could lead them to the roof. Without a second thought, Jean took two steps back before launching forward in a leap to the ladder, strong hands grabbing hold and steadying him on his way up.

"Jean, I can't-" Marco stood dumbfounded, stepping back and forth as he looked from Jean to the men starting to climb out onto the balcony below them. 

"Just jump!" Jean held out a hand as he commanded to Marco. "I'll catch you."

Marco shut his eyes for a second, opening them again as he took a few steps back and replicated Jean's earlier dive, leaping towards the thief, whose reliability he still did not fully trust in.

Jean's eyes widened in shock: He did not expect the measly tour guide to follow through with a commmand from a man he has met only a couple of times before. Jean did not know what to think of Marco and the questionable way he distributes his trust, but at the moment that didn't matter: the only thing that actually made any difference was the way his free hand grabbed onto Marco's arm, the other's hands clutching onto whatever clothes and flesh he could grab. Marco hung on strongly, swallowing as he tried to slow down his heart beat.

"Come on," Jean spoke, his words struggled as he pulled Marco's weight onto the ladder, making sure the man steadied himself on the metal and didn't clumsily slip.

"Holy shit," he heard the man say below him with a laugh of relief following. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, let's go, Princess Jasmine, we have to get to the top," Jean quickly climbed up the ladder and over the fence that circled the perimeter of the rooftop. Then he leaned over the metal fance to help Marco over; as Marco grabbed onto the fence, Jean pulled him up by the shoulder. Marco threw his legs over the fence, letting out a long sigh of accomplishment as he finally was standing safely on the rooftop, his hands still still in a tight grip on Jean's arms. Jean guessed that it was an unconscious action.

"Getting a little tired of saving your ass," Jean cringed, shrugging Marco's now lighter hold off his shoulders and stepping away.

"Excuse you?" Marco gasped but wasn't offended. "This 'ass' got you into the basement, which got us in trouble in the first place," Marco's eyes followed Jean as the other man sat down, leaning his back on the fence and throwing his head back in a resting position.

"Yeah, because I got you that copy of the map, saving your ass from punishment," Jean answered.

"You wouldn't have gotten that map if I called the security on you right away, which I didn't."

"I would have escaped anyway. I always do; I'm smooth," Jean grinned to himself.

"Having all of the museum's guards chase you down is not smooth, Jean," Marco sat next to Jean, their shoulders almost touching. Jean looked over at the space between them, a scowl evident on his upper lip. "Personal space issues?"

Jean glared at him once more. "Don't be getting too cozy. You can't be a part of...this."

"But the view from here is so gorgerous," Jean looked over after Marco finished speaking, watching as the man's gleaming eyes were entranced by the view that now only rubbed onto Jean's pupils from the frequency of the sight. The other caught him staring and nudged his shoulder with a grin. "Admit that you were impressed."

"By you? Like hell."

"Who was getting a boner there?" Marco's grin grew wider.

Jean's face flushed momentarily before he punched Marco's arm much softer than he intended to. "History gets me going, alright?" Jean chuckled at himself. "And I wouldn't really expect anything less from a tour guide. You're supposed to know history."

"Not the history that the museum locks up," Marco blurted out before he could stop his words from slipping. Noticing Marco's hesitation, Jean was about to start questioning him to get the truth of the museum from the source, but Marco interrupted. "You're the mystery, Jean. How do you know so much about Cartagenian tombs and pre-Colombian mythology?"

"I've read a few books."

"Have you been a thief your whole life?"

Jean grimaced at that question, his shoulders tensing up in defense. He knew he shouldn't talk too much, think too much, but his need to protect himself somehow conflicted with that. "No. I got enough education in France."

"Native speaker, I guessed so. By your accent," Marco grinned but stopped his speech before he went further into how intensely intriguing Jean was to him. 

"So why are you in Cartagena?" Marco continued. Although his questions were pressing, his tone was gentle and expression that of prey, not a predator.

"My parents. You could say they were obsessed with Colombia, researched the people of Cartagena before the French explorers. They were onto something in the Tomb of the Cospique before it collapsed on them."

Marco's eyebrows shot up in a kicked expression that was too sweet. "I'm sorry."

"It's nothing."

Silence settled between them again, although the space in between was so minimal. A sunset breeze played with the backs of their necks, calming wordless emotions that were swirling within the both boys. Marco's curious questions and Jean's empty, thoughtless answers. 

"The Tomb of the Cospique," Marco's voice carried in the wind. "That... leads to the Guecha catacombs."

Jean arched his neck toward Marco but did not look, a mindless reaction as he dared the man to speak further, evaluate him more.

"Maybe what you're looking for is not gold," Marco tried. "It's closure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure whether it's "du Casse" or "Ducasse" so I'm just going with the latter because the native websites seem to think so. Going against Wikipedia on this one.


	5. V. Elite Tricks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to give a huge thanks to tumblr user [suppportingcharacters](http://suppportingcharacters.tumblr.com/) because she wrote a really really nice review/recommendation of this fic (along with many other great ones) [in her post](http://suppportingcharacters.tumblr.com/post/73845824673/could-i-have-some-jeanmarco-fanfiction-recommendations) and that was just really sweet because not a lot of people know a lot about Cata, so I appreciate her getting the word out. This chapter is dedicated to her!

"...Jean?"

A blank washed over Jean's eyes as they finally decided to trace over to Marco--something was lost within them--before Jean allowed his shoulders to rise up and eyebrows to furrow accusingly.

"How the fuck am I supposed to answer that?" he spat back, a hurried breath following the question, a wavering that he didn't plan for. Ignoring the shiver traveling to his elbows he finally turned away, willing himself to calm, the temper to be shoved back. Marco sensed it too, that Jean was fighting something within himself and holding back more words than he was letting escape.

"I'm sorry, it wasn't my place to talk," Marco apologized, nervously gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Jean wished to relieve the tension between them in this moment so badly, the brand new pity eating him from the inside.

"No, I," Jean coughed into a fist, gathering all of his thoughts once again. "I understand why you said that. It's... understandable."

Marco smiled sheepishly, tilting himself away from Jean to fix his prying gaze on the tips of his toes. He watched his feet shift awkwardly, going over the countless ways he could have fucked this up, and cursing himself at how he managed to accomplish a couple of those already.

"Wrong, though," Jean looked over again, first with a calculating stare, then remembering to lighten up, mouth arching into a comforting grin; although it was partially forced, it still held a definition.

"Gold, right?" Marco smiled, a blossoming feeling flowing to his diaphragm as he realized how much he enjoyed the light in Jean's eyes, the same one he saw in the basement, one that couldn't compare to the crappy work of the dusty lightbulb. "Forgive me for saying this, but you've been coming to the museum for years, I refuse to believe you're in it just for the treasure."

Jean's shoulders quaked as he laughed; he shook his head, getting used to the feeling of Marco somehow flowing with the wavelength of his thoughts, fighting through the tensions and struggle to understand all of Jean's complications. He was fighting bravely. 

"You're right in that," Jean unfolded his arms from his knees, shifting his position to lean back and look up at the dimming sky with legs stretched out in front of him. "Don't know, I've always liked history. Probably the influence of my parents, but the mystery of it all, the clues, the thrill of the chase, all that. Sometimes I get so focused on all the tiny puzzle pieces that I forget what the whole picture looks like, what I'm actually looking for, you know?"

Jean felt the flowery silence between them because as he looked over at Marco, the freckled man was wearing what Jean would describe as the most shit-eating grin he's ever seen, but he's probably the only one who could make such an exaggerated, toothy smile look so memorable.

"I just talked too much, didn't I?" Jean cringed, wiping a hand over his face hoping to relieve some of the exhaustion he was feeling in his head; he groaned.

"No!" Marco waved his hands in front of him, grasping the pleasant frequency that was stirring between them at that moment. "Not at all. I don't really know a lot about you, so hearing this is... nice. 

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it," Jean scoffed, holding his eyes closed for a moment and then opening them again. 

"You've warmed up to me and you know it," Marco shoved Jean without holding any strength back. Jean was taken aback by the physical interaction, but before he could express anger, an unexpected tide of joy washed over him.

"Shove it, Marco, you've got a key to every door in your museum," he defended.

"Yet you don't need any keys, do you?" Marco smirked. "You're more of a mystery than the Tomb of the Cospique."

"Let me know when you're done fangirling so I can sign your chest," Jean chuckled, looking up at Marco and marveling in the way the blush entwined with the freckles on the boys' cheeks.

"No, Jean, listen," Marco spoke, putting both of his hands before him and alarmingly close to Jean's hip, leaning forward with kind eyes. "You're smart. You're damn smart, and I feel like a fool for having judged you so quickly just because of my initial impressions. I'm sorry for calling you a thief, I can tell you didn't like that."

Jean's lips thinned in a line, absorbing every syllable of Marco's words, which seemed pre-mapped out when in reality the man was just letting his tongue roll with his feelings as they were rising up from his chest. He was high on the feeling of pride and interest, all stemming from the enigma that landed him in this situation in the first place. He couldn't express it. He couldn't.

"I know you're going to get what you want from your search because you're that smart, and you know what you're doing. I've never been this... impressed before," Marco spoke out, wishing he could take back his word choice but only settled to rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He still smiled, letting out a sigh as he let go of the worry; he figured if it wanted to be said, then it's good that he said it.

"Now you talked too much," Jean's words were combined with a laugh. He leaned up to sit again, soaked with Marco's words, replaying them over again in the back of his head, picking the phrases apart. The words were full, and so were the confusing feelings attached to them. He didn't know what to feel, but at that point, he decided to hang out to the pleasant and let himself ride on the compliments.

"Now you're never going to tell me anything again and probably leave," Marco groaned, although his tone was facetious, he realized that he just voiced his fear.

"Nah, the sun hasn't even set yet," Jean spread his arms, directing their attention to the sunset again. "My turn, Marco. Why the hell are you in this?"

Marco blinked twice.

"And don't tell me it's for fun or that you need more friends," Jean pulled one leg under himself, body turning its attention to Marco's responses; the tourguide started feeling exposed, but not nervous.

"Because I haven't met anyone in this whole city with as much interest and knowledge as you!" Marco exclaimed, heart feeling lighter at this confession now. "Honestly, you took one look at a dumb, vague statue and recognized its origin."

"A third grader could figure that out," Jean flicked a wrist.

"And I think that if you're taking so many risks for something, that means it's important. I just," Marco hesitated, quantizing his words for a split second. "I want to be useful."

Jean held still, unstirring, rolling his lips and wettening them with his tongue; he narrowed his eyes, watching Marco's body language, the color of his skin, the graceful way the wind danced with the hair that was framing his face, neat.

"You have been useful," Jean finally admitted. "Having someone else look at what I'm looking at and see something that I don't notice, that's what discovery is," Jean said, rewinding the sentence in his head and wondering if it made sense. Somehow when he was nervous, he felt his tongue tie uncomfortably with the Colombian language, knowing that his accent became more evident than before.

Marco let out a breath of relief, which threw Jean's heart back into his spine, questioning why those were the words that comforted the boy. Marco knew, he knew that Jean refused help for some unknown, prideful reasons which Marco tried to understand, yet being around each other there was some sort of soft, unspoken trust, the wavelength that they both felt. As Marco was eager to grasp it, Jean eyed it wearily, and the French man's acknowledgement of Marco's efforts somehow showed that Jean was closer to being on the same level as Marco than ever before.

"But..." here it was again, the choking doubt. "How am I supposed to trust you when you're the mayor's son?"

Marco winced, looking away from Jean in shame, taking his hands back towards his chest as if the rooftop burned him. 

"You're part of everything that I'm against, and that's fucked up, Marco," Jean smiled bitterly. He reached out to grasp Marco's shoulder, hoping that he could communicate verbally and physically everything that was wrong with whatever could happen between them. "It your people, your people on top, that I've been running away from. They could lock me up or throw me out of Colombia in a second."

Jean took a breath, a bitter warmth heating his forehead, a dryness scratching his throat as he kept speaking. He tried not to let temper or negativity embrace him, and somehow these words were easy to form because they were nothing but the truth. They both knew that.

"Those catacombs belong to the city, not me, and I've been breaking more and more laws just by pursuing this," Jean squeezed Marco's shoulder, pushing him towards understanding. It wasn't only Jean's illegal status in this country that was the problem, but also the way he was digging into something that literally did not belong to him. It was frightening, and even Jean began to feel it as the sun kept sinking down. "How do I know you're not going to slip up about me to your father?"

"Because I wouldn't," Marco proclaimed. It was a stern statement, set in stone, so certain that Jean almost forgot to doubt it.

"I refuse to believe there's nothing in it for you," Jean lowered his eyes.

"But there is," Marco's tone mirrored his previous response as he grasped Jean's wrist of the hand that was resting on Marco's shoulder. He made no move to shove it back and push it away, he just held on, daring Jean to jerk back. Which was, incidentally, Jean's first instinct. He almost slid back but the fragility of the topic at hand didn't let him move anything except the muscles on his face. He licked his lips again, tasting fear on his tongue. 

What Jean feared the most was how difficult it was to read Marco, while Marco made no attempt to stop reading him.

"Come on, I know how fucked this is, and I understand that you don't trust me, and that's fine," Marco smiled, his fingers shifting on Jean's wrist. "But all you know about me is my status, which I wish to reject so badly."

"Oh, take your priviledge somewhere else," Jean rolled his eyes.

"No, now you have to listen," Marco leaned forward and planted a hand in front of them again. Jean raised his eyebrows at the command, feeling like he just lost the imaginary upper hand. It was a pleasant surprise. "My father doesn't want to keep supporting the museum, not in the right way, anyway. He's been selling precious artifacts and paying shit to immigrant workers to make fakes. It's killing me, Jean. He hasn't touched the basement yet, but I really can't watch him destroy the only thing I care about."

"Why would he need the money, though?" Jean's eyes darkened and eyebrows sank. He dropped his hand from Marco's shoulder, and Marco releashed his grip, but their hands still hovered, dangerous.

"I think the greed is getting to him," Marco shook his head, his eyes sullen with disappointment, looking up again, quietly seeking help from the man in front of him. "There's so much corruption, and I don't know how to fix it, so I try to escape it."

Jean nodded, slowly at first, coming to understand Marco's origins. His old thoughts and impressions of the upper class, engraved in him since being orphaned, did not completely slip away, yet he could sense the pureness radiating from Marco. He almost felt bad, but the only pity was stemming from how confused and lost Marco seemed, how little he knew of what was really going on and how the only wrong he faced held its roots in his father. Jean was already hardened up from his childhood, but Marco was being exposed from his priviledged shell so late that all Jean could do was watch.

"I know it's probably nothing to what you faced," Marco droned.

"No, it's not," Jean smiled. "Your dad is a dick, and we're dumb boys hunting ghosts, but one thing that I know for sure is that the artifacts are much safer in my apartment than they are in the Palacio."

"Are you planning to relocate the whole museum into your bedroom?" Marco joked.

"Anything that was really important is already there," Jean said nonchalantly, waving a hand in front of Marco's widened eyes.

"I thought you only took the map?"

"Oh," Jean stopped. "Shit, yeah. No."

"Honestly, why don't you just pay the entrance fee and just go in?" Marco rolled his eyes, but Jean could tell that he wasn't expecting an answer, so he let the words die down. Marco breathed out, lunging forward to push up off the ground. He bent his back, pushing his shoulder blades together in a stretch before turning around and resting his hands on the railing. He sighed, a happy tone radiating off his breath, as he glanced back at Jean. The latter also got up and followed Marco to stand next to him.

"Want me to take you home, princess?" Jean teased, demanding Marco's attention away from the dimming colors of the sunset onto him. As Marco turned, Jean replied with a grin.

"How are we supposed to get down?" the freckled man asked, leaning over the edge and warily eyeing the metal ladder below them.

"You know, you can always jump a couple of roofs until you get down, or climb down the building using balconies and windowsills," Jean spoke, and Marco's eyes widened further at each suggestion. Jean connected his look for a moment before spitting out mocking laughter. "I'm just kidding, there's a door there," he pointed his thumb behind his shoulder to the upper left corner of the roof. The square door was dirty, but by the handle it was evident to Marco that it was frequently used.

"Why didn't we just take that way to come up here?" Marco questioned, shoulders tensing, barely noticeable, at how much easier their escape to the roof could have been. At least he wouldn't have had to risk his life for it.

Jean grimaced, twisting his lips to the side in a forming thought. He was toeing the distance between them, the untouchable connection but the painfully evident difference in type and level of soul that was dominating between them. Jean tried so desperately to understand, to map their relationship out, but the thought just left him tired.

"Honestly, I didn't think you would follow me," Jean gave a shrug to add onto the effect of his words, trying to make them seem much less impactful than they actually were for Marco.

"Right," the lack of a deeper response pissed Jean off for some reason, but he tried to let it settle down with his temper.

+++

 

"Is Marco queer?"

The sound of sudden choking immediately interrupted his train of thought, the seized coughing followed by maniacal laughter.

"What the hell?" Ymir scoffed, regaining a breath from her laughter as she started patting her back pockets in search of what Jean guessed was a lighter.

"Is he gay?" Jean tried again. He kept his eyes on the pavement below them for a moment, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, but then decided that it was too obvious so he looked to the side over at Ymir, who noticed how his pace got slightly quicker.

"The fuck are you asking me for?" Ymir responded, the last two words getting smudged as she shoved a cigarette between her lips. It took her two clicks to start the fire from the lighter. Jean noticed that she always smoked like this after she spent her time with Christa, in whose presence Ymir never even mentioned cigarettes, even though the smell followed her everywhere. It didn't seem like Ymir was trying to quit at all, but her self-control around the blonde was somewhat admirable. 

"Well... I mean-"

"Just because I'm somewhat gay doesn't mean I can tell when other people are," she attacked back, holding the cigarette between her fingers so she could speak. Jean put his hands in front of himself like a shield; Ymir's words were followed with smoke like she was a dragon.

"No, that's not wha-"

"If you need someone gay to tell you if Marco is, then fucking ask yourself," she finished, hungrily sucking the cigarette and the momentary frown was replaced with a satisfied grin.

"Don't be like that," Jean responded before tightening up as he registered the words. "Hey, wait, hey, what?"

"You wouldn't be asking if you weren't interested in him," the girl said with a nod. She kept her eyes on him, waiting for a response to what she just knew was a clever observation. Reaching her arms back she fixed her messy ponytail, breathing the smoke out of her nose as she walked. In the evening dark, Jean could see her dim freckles being illuminated by the weak fire.

"I was just asking since you're probably the only other person that I know that knows of him," Jean reasoned.

"You tripped over your accent so hard there even I don't understand what you just said," Ymir chuckled. Jean just swore at her, slapping her on the shoulder in his own defense, knowing that he could not do anything to make himself seem a more eloquent speaker when it came to the natives. He rolled his tongue in his mouth experimentally, hoping he'll come over the accent spell soon. He had those days when Colombian just didn't form, and it humiliated him.

"No, but seriously, I don't know," Ymir responded more kindly now. She kicked an empty glass bottle to the side from the sidewalk into the building. "Since when is this interest? You never told me you actually met him."

"Well, he works at the museum," Jean rubbed the back of his neck, fingering a rat tail that was forming there and realized that he should get it buzzed soon. "I kind of blackmailed him to get more documents for my research."

"Ooh, what a bad boy," Ymir said in a lower voice how, her eyes narrowing as she spoke through her thin grin. "Blackmailing someone of the upper class, damn, Jean, you're moving up the ladder."

"Fuckin' literally."

"You're gonna get in so much deep shit when you're arrested. I'll miss you when they deport your ass back to France, Sir Napoleon," Ymir laughed as she reached out a hand to rub it into Jean's hair, messing it up and playing with the length. "At least get a nice fuck out of it."

Jean side-glanced her with disgust, swatting her hand away from his hair. It had been almost a week since he last saw Marco on the rooftop and escorted him back into the museum through the roof door. The time between he spent working for Ana Maria for the farmer's fair, rebuilding her stands, all while desperately trying to swat away all thoughts of Marco and his careful words and the way his black hair framed his face right at his cheeks.

In the dark Jean felt for the lock on the entrance door, sliding the key into it and opening the doorway, letting Ymir go through first. They went up a couple flights of stairs towards his and Connie's apartment. Jean hoped for a calm night, the three of them probably smoking up their living room and slowly dozing off at something on the television like they usually did. Jean felt like he almost needed that stable thing back in his life, needed to relax his muscles and sort out his thoughts. Or at least shut them off for a night; he was exhausted from thinking about the Catacombs and the French and the elite.

"Smells," Ymir commented at the made the final passage down the hallway towards their door at the end. Jean quietly agreed, sniffing the air.

"Bastard started without us," Jean said, getting past Ymir to try the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. Ymir mumbled something close to 'so did we.' Jean stepped into a vortex of fading smoke and a smell that slapped him right across his senses. There was a faint sound of instrumental music coming from Connie's bedroom, and the only light sources were the bathroom, the television, the dim kitchen lamp and the moonlight pouring from the outside through the open blinds. Every window was cracked in the small space, but that clearly didn't help.

"Jesus, Connie," Jean called out, but his words were cut off as he tripped over the numerous pairs of shoes thrown around the entrance. Jean kicked his own off before leaping over the rest to go search for his roommate. He zipped past a group in the kitchen, seemed like Annie's provate school friends. Two boys were sprawled on the living room couch, the blonde one dozing off in the taller one's lap; the party winded down for them, it seemed, as they ignored the beer cans on the coffee table in front of them.

"Yo, Bert, where's that bald dick hiding?" Jean growled out to the taller boy on the couch. He raised his head at Jean's entrance, giving him a wave and a greeting before directing him to the bedroom that was guarded by a shut door. Jean flung it open, only to be slapped in the face with a thick cloud of smoke; his eyes watered.

"Jean!" Connie exclaimed from his position on the bed, cozy shoulder to shoulder with Sasha, he was right in the middle of lighting a joint in his mouth before Jean interrupted him with his intrustion. "Close the door, close the door!"

"You still live here?" a green-eyed teen turned around with a mocking grin.

"Shove it, Jaeger," Jean retorted, but sat down on the floor next to him anyway. They exchanged an acknowledging but annoyed glance before the joint was passed around the circle. "Warm me next time that there's people here," Jean said to Connie, who was taking a gulp from a water bottle. Not that Jean really minded having people here, especially that they were all mostly college kids that Jean knew through Connie.

"Sorry, no walking around naked for you tonight," Sasha said, following by laughter louder than she probably thought it was. Ymir joined the circle, now totaling six people, and continued the string of smoke from her mouth down to Jean. Jean took a disgustingly long drag from the joint before passing it to Eren next to him, who choked.

"Bitch," Jean commented.

"Fuck-" two more coughs, "Off." Eren was a couple years younger than them, and Jean thought it completely fair to give him a hard time about almost everything to pay back for the boy's shit attitude; it just did not collide with Jean's. But for all it was worth, Jean still tolerated his presence. Mainly because he tolerated all of Connie's friends, and he had a soft spot of admiration for Eren's best friend Armin, who helped Jean's research of the Palacio countless of times in the past.

"Marco's been gone for a long time," Mina said from somewhere in the circle. Snapping his head up, Jean looked with his bewildered eyes from her worried face onto Connie's completely stoned one.

"Marco's here?" Jean strained to even out his voice.

"Speaking of walking around naked," Ymir nudged his shoulder, ignored by Jean. 

"Yeah, but he-"

"Does he smoke?" Jean questioned. "Did he smoke?"

"Way to keep it cool," Ymir mumbled next to him.

"Shh, wait, too much," Connie waved a hand in front of Jean's face, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Yeah, yeah, but, shh, he went to get chasers for the people in the kitchen."

A roaring cheer was muffled by the closed door; the group simultaneously turned to listen, the sounds answering Mina's question. Jean twisted back, reaching out to steal the joint hanging in Ymir's lips. He took another long drag, exhaling as he got up off the floor and exited the hotboxed room. His exit was followed by Sasha questioning Jean's acquaintance with Marco, to which everyone probably shrugged. Jean just hoped that Ymir did not say anything else.

Jean quietly shut the door behind him, eyeing Marco's movements as the man, his hair messier and slightly longer than last week, emptied the contents of his bag out for the joyful receiving crowd who proceeded to pour a line of shots for the group. His hand slid off the handle as he stepped towards the man, swallowing as he witnessed the way Marco threw his head back to take a shot, messing up with black hair even more. Marco pushed it back and over the top of his head, laughing at something the audacious British exchange student was saying, an obvious blush hiding behind his freckles.

Shaking his head vigorously, with a determined look hanging on his eyebrows Jean made a line over to Marco, grabbing the guide's wrist and pulling him towards the bathroom. The light pouring from the crack between the wall and the door seemed more blurred than usual, and Jean almost forgot that he smoked with Ymir on the way here. So now he stumbled into the bathroom, guiding a confused Marco with him, an indifferent look from the group sent to them before it went back to more important things like the next round of shots.

"Jean, hi!" Marco exclaimed behind him. Jean turned around; Marco leaned back on the doorframe, midly discheveled and covered in red tint and all messy, bright, shining eyes looking at Jean as if they were waiting for him all night.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Jean asked, his voice meshing with the blowing air vent, messing up his thoughts. Too much sensory input.

"What?" Marco blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I just," Jean tried, waving his hand palm up in an attempt to explain with gestures but failing. "I didn't know you... did things."

"What?" Marco doubled forward with an appaled laugh, the expression brightening his features impossibly more. Jean cringed, scratching at his hair behind his ear, feeling stupid already. "What, you think I sit in my room and read history books all night? I go to the museum and dust off statues?" Marco let out a charming laugh. "That's nice of you I guess, but don't be angry with me just because you were wrong this time."

Marco's crooked smile glistened with leftover alcohol, eyes pale but slightly bloodshot; Jean knew he didn't look any better. Hell, how could anyone look better right now? He was at a loss for words, but Marco was so exposed in front of him, so inviting. Jean plunged forward, one hand slamming right beside Marco's head on the wall, the other bunching up the fabric of Marco's shirt as he pulled the man toward him halfway, catching his lips between his own. He pressed forward, impactful and without any regrets as he marked Marco's mouth, body rubbing over his before he yanked himself back, allowing for some sort of reaction from Marco, who slid slightly down the wall.

The freckles almost vanished under the intense blush, the brown of his pupils evident as his widened eyes stared up at him, shock, surprise, no disgust but intense confusion. Jean looked down, frowning at the gravity of the situation, mentally taking responsibility for this compromising position, but Marco didn't fight, didn't shove back, didn't pull away, just wrapped his hand around Jean's wrist, much like he did on the rooftop, speechless.

Jean leaned in again, slower this time, taking time to touch Marco's lips properly, to move along in waves. His frown softened, eyelashes fluttering down as the two men moved their mouths together. The tequila from Marco's tongue was now coating Jean's mouth, erasing the dry mouth he had from the evening of smoking. Marco's arm wrapped around Jean's neck, pulling their faces closer into each other, forcing breaths to mix, and Jean's body pressed Marco's into the wall. He was careful not to start grinding right away; it's been some time since he's been touched.

"Jean," Marco breathed, pulling back to regain breaths after long minutes of making out and holding back. His head was swirling, and Jean's was too; the latter man felt like he could lose his footing.

"Yeah, I don't know," Jean answered the question that was hushed there between them.

"I think I found something," Marco said more firmly now.

"Mhm, my throbbing erection," Jean groaned out, the filter on his mouth now probably buried in Marco's throat.

"No, shut up," Marco swatted him slightly on the chest, them talking closer and not yet pulling apart. "For the... catacombs."

"Oh," Jean whispered. "Ugh, not right now. I can't right now," Jean liked to think that he was referring to his intoxicated state.

"I thought it was important?" Marco asked, shuffling to move up the wall, his face now even with Jean's.

"It can be important in the morning," he said, ashamed in the way his eyes were attached to Marco's pink lips as they moved to speak to him.

"Yeah," Marco agreed with a breathy nod, brushing his fingers under Jean's chin to nudge his face closer towards his. Marco tilted his head last millisecond, their lips connecting in a kiss again. The atmosphere around them settled into a comfortable weight, a warmth embracing and pulling them closer together, resting them on each other as they let the drugs do the thinking and desires do the loving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [HON HON HONING INTENSIFIES]  
> I just really wanted them to make out, honestly.


	6. VI. Come and Collide

A slight buzzing bothering the back of Jean's neck woke him up; he cursed his absent-mindedness, having forgotten to shut the curtains the night before, now the light was happily slapping him across the face. Prying his eyes open, he reached his arms up, fishing for a clock somewhere on his bed stand, missing by a couple of inches for three tries straight. He decided to give up, groaning and forcing his body upward. Jean sat up, leaning on his knees and absorbing his surroundings with fresh eyes.

Thankfully, he was in his own room, but it was in a much messier state than he left it the night before, he was sure. Especially the fact that the maps that usually hung casually on his walls were rolled up on the floor, some even held open by Jean's books. He frowned, scratching the shaved back of his head as he tried to recall events from last night. Rubbing his sore eyes, Jean caught the sound of cheerful conversation in the kitchen, two distinct voices. He threw the thin covers off his knees and exited his room.

"Good morning, princess," Connie's smug face was the first thing to greet him, cheeks stuffed full of breakfast. Sasha was sitting on the kitchen counter, a bowl of cereal in her hands as she stopped at some part of the conversation when Jean emerged from his cave.

"What the fuck did you give me last night," Jean scowled at his roommate, walking over to the cabinets in quest for a mug. "I never lose my memory like this."

"Hey, not my fault you got cross-faded like a motherfucker," Connie shrugged from his seat.

"I don't even remember drinking," Jean frowned again, flinging the refrigerator door open and clumsily pouring the orange juice into his mug.

===

"Jean, truth or dare!"

"Shut the fuck up, Mina... unless you're daring me to take this fucking shot!" Jean yelled at the girl who was merely a couple of feet away from him; he swung his arm, hitting Marco's shoulder, before grabbing the shot that Annie barely finished pouring and swung his head back to accept the liquor down his throat. Slamming the glass back on the table, he dramatically wiped his mouth before looking over the crowd in front of him. "What the fuck is up with you private school kids? Slow as fuck, get them Uni up here."

"Don't give the foreigner any more alcohol," he heard someone say to Annie. Meanwhile, the blonde girl just smirked at Jean's act, clutching the bottle in thought and obviously contemplating whether to go with the suggestion or to have her fun with the boy.

"I'm fine!" Jean spat, leaning his body weight half onto Marco's shoulder and half onto the kitchen counter in front of him. Silently he challenged Annie, who only narrowed her eyes with a smirk before drinking straight from the bottle herself. "Mina, come on, dare me to do shit."

"I dare you to tell the truth ab-"

"Fuck that, no, fuck that shit, you're so boring," Jean slurred, slamming a hand on the table. "Dare me an actual thing."

"Jean's pretty good at climbing things," Marco piped in.

"NO!" there was a unanimous uproar from the entire group and several hands grabbing at Jean's shoulders as he attempted to start climbing the counter.

"Fuck, where's Reiner, he's fun with stuff like this."

"He's asleep," Connie was the one to answer, one foot in the trash can trying to stuff three pizza boxes in the small container. "Eren just got picked up by Mikasa, in case you wanted to torture him or something."

"See, this is why I don't attend school," Jean pointed a wobbly finger towards Connie with malice in his eyes. "Sleep is like a priority, or something," he rolled his eyes, which just made his head dizzier. He suddenly felt the heat of Marco's hand on his lower back, a finger sneaking just past his shirt, but subtle enough to pass as a reassuring gesture. "Aren't finals over?"

"Fuckin'... there are two semesters in a year, you dumb immigrant, two!" Connie screamed in frustration, obviously coming down from his high.

Jean frown deepened to dramatic proportions before he turned his pout towards Marco, his breath decorating the boy's freckles with alcholoic scent. The other didn't pull away, just blushed deeper and let his face be pulled down towards Jean's.

===

"At least you woke up with your pants on," Sasha sang, wiggling her eyebrows up and down at him, her spoon frozen on the way to her mouth. Jean looked over her, cringing, and the wheels in his brain finally started turning.

"What are you-"

"You're dull as fuck when it comes to something that doesn't have to do with history," Connie said, receiving an approving laugh from Sasha, who looked over at him in appreciation of the joke.

"Oh, shit," Jean said, slamming his mug down on the counter with an impressive sound. "Where's M... Did Mar... Shit, wait, nooooo," Jean leaned back with horror painted over his face. He whipped his head to look down at his pants, felt them just to make sure he wasn't imagining the fabric on his hips, letting out a sigh of relief before looking up at Connie again.

"Where's Marco?" Jean tried that question first.

"He left, said he had an early shift at the museum," Connie said, not wiping the grin off his face any time soon. "But not before making me this bomb-ass omelet," Connie proceeded to stuff his face with the omelet.

"Relax, you guys just made out," Sasha spoke, setting the empty bowl on the counter next to her. "Then he challenged you to a power hour, which was an impressive power quarter-hour because you guys managed to confuse tequila for beer."

===

"Stop them."

"Pussy, you fucking missed the last two minutes!" Jean uttered out, some vowels getting swallowed up and never making it out of his throat. His finger was desperately punching Marco's phone to reset the timer for one more minute. Meanwhile, Marco tried to lift the bottle but ended up setting it down again with a heavy sigh.

"Jean, I-"

"Don't. You."

"I cannot," Marco shook his head, grabbing it with his hand and squeezing his forehead into his palm, subduing the pleasant ache slightly. "We're going to end up sleeping in vomit."

===

 

"Then you two went into your room, talked about history for like an hour, and passed out on your bed," Connie finished. "Fucking nerds."

"That's embarrassing," Sasha tilted her head with a grin.

"No sex," Jean stated, speaking more to himself to make sure he beleieved it.

"You don't wanna?" Sasha asked.

"I don't wanna do it while fucked up," Jean explained, refilling his mug, overly-confident face scarily even as he ignored the sound of Connie choking to death.

"You like him?" Sasha tried to hide her sunny grin in her coffee mug, but the steam from the hot drink fogged her glasses up, so she removed it and smiled openly at Jean. He could tell that the idea of Jean and Marco intrigued her.

"I mean, yeah, I guess," Jean shrugged; he rested his hips on the side of the counter, his head hitting one of the cabinets as he tilted it back. "Better than your dumb asses."

"But..." Connie encouraged, leaning forward with an expecting face. Jean felt a weird vibe coming off his best friend, and it left him leaving uncomfortable, unsettled.

"But?" Jean asked, looking around then at Sasha, silently asking her what he was thinking, yet she only shrugged.

"But he's the fucking upper class, man, you forget?" Connie raised his voice as he reasoned. "His dad finds out and you're in jail until you get deported. And I don't have enough money to bail you out."

"He wouldn't imprison me for hooking up with his son, Connie," Jean shrugged him off, a black heat crawling up his throat.

"I think the fact that Jean has been robbing the museum since he's been born is a better reason," Sasha attempted to defend. Jean gave her a glare; that wasn't really the best thing that she could have said to defend his point.

"As if you need more reasons," Connie rolled his eyes, stuck on his argument.

"It was never a problem before, so why is it suddenly a concern now?" Jean answered back, trying his best to keep his tone even because he didn't want to argue with his best friend, not over something so trivial. "Are you a homophobe?"

"No, I swear I'm not," Connie waved his hand before shaking his head, quiet for a moment. "Sorry, man, I'm just hungover. Just, I don't know, be careful, or whatever."

Jean's face relaxed again, chest feeling much lighter as the argument was dropped. He even saw Sasha's shoulders relax as Connie apologized.

"No, you're right, I appreciate you trying to be a good friend," Jean walked over to his roommate, putting a hand on his back, giving it a couple of reassuring taps. "I'll be careful, I promise."

+++

 

Jean thought that he did not understand his unforgiving necessity to see Marco only when the sun was setting--even seeing him in different light at the party somehow was strange, his facial structure illuminated by a more exact source in the bathroom. But the sky was painted in oranges and yellows until a red blossomed at the base of the Earth. Jean's fingers were tightly gripping a windowsill at the ground level of the museum. Climbing over the window, hugging the wall closely, he leapt over to the fire escape ladder; a minor crack in the wall appeared as he did so, right where the metal met the stone wall. He sighed from the sudden scare, and continued climbing until he reached the third floor. 

Hopping over the railing onto the steady metal foundation with the entrance to the stairwell, Jean ran his hand through his hair, messing with the longer, brown hair on his head and rubbing over the darker, shaved parts at his ears and the back of his neck. When Annie decided to give him an undercut months ago, everyone warned him that it would make him stand out too much. Jean said that it's what he loved about it. He felt he was always meant to stand out, but the circumstance required him to blend in and disappear as much as possible.

The stairwell entrance was locked this time; Jean hissed under his breath. He turned around to look, searched for another entrance into the museum. Soft white curtains were blowing out from the balcony, and the movement caught his eye. He maneuvered his way by ledges and outside pipes towards the beaten stone of the balcony sill. As he hung off, ready to step over, a small light turned on in the room. He knew that the third floor was Marco's showroom, but he couldn't be too careful about his last escape. He didn't visit the building since then.

Jean listened still for a second before gripping the wall tighter and climbing over, pulling his body onto the balcony, one hand on the ledge again as he surveyed his placement. 

"That's so Romeo of you," he heard Marco's voice, as if it was the source of the tiny light from the room, before the freckled man pulled the white curtain to the side and stepped past the glass.

"I was thinking more Aladdin because I don't feel like becoming suicidal by the end of this," Jean answered, shaking out his hands from the wear that they've been put through during the climbing.

"I mean, you are a-" Marco cut himself off. "Sorry, I'll get better."

"You're gonna have to," Jean rolled his eyes, grinning obsessively at the way Marco blushed at his response. Jean said farewell to games and secrecy between them, because he felt like he did not need to be coy with this man. A comfortable sense.

"Well, fuck," Marco said, his hand nervously brushing over his nose, face turned away. 

"But I'm here on business," Jean said. "Sort of."

"Come on," Marco gestured him inside, swatting the curtain to the side as he went back into the building. The sunset's gentle color brushed over the back of his head, the faint freckles peeking from under his shirt on his back suddenly more evident. 

Jean inched forward, leaping forward and slipping his finger over the collar of Marco's clean shirt. He pulled, the shirt wrapping around Marco's neck and he went with the motion to stop himself from choking. Jean maneuvered their bodies towards the edge of the balcony, spreading over Marco and putting hands by his waist and leaning them on the concrete edging of the balcony. The top half of Marco's body was now peaking over the slowing city, catching the wind from three floors below him. It danced under his shirt and crept its way up to the hair on his neck. Marco gasped, squeezing his eyes shut as he turned his face away and towards the open space over the edge.

Stealing the hesitance of the moment, Jean's lips kissed the side of Marco's neck. The latter boy flushed, turning back and putting his hand over his mouth. He didn't speak, but muffled an incoherent sound behind his palm. Wordless, Jean calmly reached up an arm to put on the man's wrist, dragging the hand down and lunging forward to kiss him on the lips. He tilted his head one second in, breathing in and keeping his eyes closed, feeling Marco's lips respond and push back at the contact. As he started smiling, so did Jean, a knowing.

Jean pulled back, opened his eyes, before leaning in again. He was growing impatient, and the taste he got that night may not have been enough to imprint on his memory, so, hell, he needed practice. He bit on Marco's bottom lip, earning himself another gasp; his tongue licked over, accidentally colliding with Marco's confident one. He still could not figure out how Marco danced the line between reassured confidence and careful shyness; he needed to trace it. 

Showing pity to the man, Jean retreated, also fully aware that someone might see their graceful display of affection on the balcony. That was the last thing he wanted, Jean thought, especially for Marco. His hand clutched at the bottom of his shirt, pulling down and playing with the edge, bitterness on the tip of his tongue at being the victim or circumstance and of not knowing so much that he wanted to know about the boy. He dealt.

"I have some things that I found," Marco spoke, his voice not louder than the whistling of the wind around the corner. "I've been looking for more."

Jean frowned, wondering what he failed to find that Marco did. He was almost jealous until Marco commanded him to come in using his soft tone. Jean was obedient; the first thing he noticed upon entering the showroom floor is the open displays--all the displays were wide open, the glass windows spread like wings, the artifacts vulnerable to touch. Jean held back a gasp; his hands itched.

"You really do go hard for history," Marco said with a simple laugh, looking over his shoulder at Jean.

"Shut up," Jean said. "Did you do all this?"

"Yeah," Marco said. "I've been looking more into Ducasse and everything you told me about."

"But," Jean spoke. "There's nothing on Ducasse in this room, I've checked."

"Have you thought about looking into any other French explorers?" Marco asked, walking over to a flat display case, a table with scrolls held open under the glass.

"None that would be related," Jean responded, frowning with suspicious as he watched Marco's movements. He started feeling a bit embarrassed--was he beginning to look less learned and professional at his topic? What did he forget to analyze? What did he miss?

"The Raid on Cartagena, that's what brought Ducasse to the tomb in the first place, right?" Marco said, reaching over to open the glass over the scrolls--it was already unlocked. "So I've looked into what Bernard Desjean and Baron de Pointis wrote after the raid."

"Them? They just invaded together, why would the other two be interested in what Ducasse found?" Jean asked.

"From what I've read," Marco said. "They weren't."

Jean's neck snapped back almost visibly; he looked at Marco, waiting for some kind of sense to be made in the connection between the three men. Jean has read and researched everything he could on Jean Baptiste, but only looked over what the Desjean and de Pointis wrote--which was barely anything.

"But I found this," Marco held a scroll open with his hands, careful with the old paper. The genuinity of this material was not in question. "Desjean was not interested in the walls--his task was dealing with the people, which, of course, didn't end well as we both know, but, he sent his 'servants' to search around the wall for anyone that might have wanted to escape during the raid."

Marco's finger underlined French writing, the other hand on the translation provided right next to it. Jean skeptically followed the man's trail.

"He wrote something about some kinds of... weapons that they brought back," Marco looked at Jean, who was leaning very closely to him. "But the translation here, I don't know if it's right. Honestly, I don't know if this is anything, but it just seem-"

"Wait," Jean held up a finger, which interrupted Marco's trajectory. His eyes shook in his sockets as he rapidly read over the faded, neat French handwriting. His expression focused again; Marco was fascinated with the way his facial features moved and shifted, the way they read out everything that Jean was thinking into the air.

"What is it?" he tried to gain a grain of the man's attention. 

"It says that the weapons were covered in blood."

Both their breaths scratched in their throats. Marco kept his eyes focused on Jean, waiting for the man's reaction, to see how he should be reacting. Truthfully, even the notion of pain and bloodshed on the way to the tomb scared the life out of him, beause it was so close, so close to home, but he could not tell what Jean was thinking. Maybe it was something he expected, maybe he trained the fear.

"Crimson sacrifice?" Jean finally said. Marco frowned, tilting his head to the side subconsciously, his mouth forming into a circle.

"What?"

"The crimson sacrifice?" Jean asked again, shaking out his hands as he took a couple of steps away and then towards the display. "In the basement, we found the copied down inscription, presumably off the tomb wall. It said something about a crimson sacrifice. Does it say anything about bodies?"

Marco shrugged, pointing to the French handwriting. Jean almost laughed at himself, if this was the appropriate time. He took the leadership to finish reading the scroll, kicking the ground behind him as he came to the end of the letter.

"Fuck, nothing!" Jean let out, his hands balling up into fists. "Only the scoping of the wall. It doesn't even say anything about whether the catacombs were built before that or after. Shit, this is..."

"I thought I was onto something," Marco mumbled, careful not to apologize. "It's a shot in the dark though, isn't it? To say that the crimson sacrifice is blood from the bodies of the soldiers."

"It could be..." Jean leaned forward, dropping his head between his shoulder blades, taking even breaths. "We're doing so much guess work here... I don't even know what we really got ourselves into."

He raised his head, noticing the mild twinge on his tongue, the way he was speaking. The thread of questions was unwinding and tangling even faster in his head, somewhere woven in the guilt and uneasiness of involving Marco. The uniting word itself started to find home in his mouth, and he noticed it eventually, at times like these, when there was time in the silence between the two men.

"Jean, about the inscription in French..." 

"Yeah, I know."

"You do?"

They looked at each other.

"Of course it was my parents," Jean said. "Who else? It was French, it was recent. It was obvious."

Marco paused, holding his lips together and still for a moment, afraid to even move a tooth because this was Jean's moment, not his own.

"I realized it when you were trying to tell me something in my bathroom," Jean said, the still mouth finally spreading into a grin, a weak one. Marco burst out a laugh, holding his stomach as the corners of his eyes relaxed. His pulled back, spine bending forward as he dropped his head, hiding his eyelashes behind the dark brown fringe. He looked up at Jean, pinching his lip, hating this.

"You don't think..." he started. "You don't think we're actually going to have to go into the tomb, are we?"

Jean snapped back, his eyebrows dropping in intense mockery, fingers freezing. 

"Dude," he said. "That's what I've been planning to do all along."

"What?" Marco asked, shoving off the stand he was previously leaning on, the waves of nerves running across his face. "Did you not just read that they found bloodied weapons? Are you not scared?"

"What, I'm just gonna read about the catacombs, figure everything out and be satisfied with it?" Jean said, spitting out a laugh. "I'm going to go in there, and I'm going to get the gold."

Marco stalled, breath sliding out between his lips at a crawling speed.

"Gold," Marco said.

"Hell yeah."

"What if..." Marco's eyes glistened, wide. "Like your parents?" he cracked.

Jean stepped over to stand in front of the taller man. He cupped his face in his hands, thumbs resting on the soft, speckled skin; heartbeat pumping.

"That's my advantage," Jean said. "I know them, and I'm here, and I know what mistakes not to make."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M A PIECE OF SHIT I'M REALLY SORRY  
> I was so good at updating at the end of winter, but then I just couldn't JeanMarco for some reason. But I have found my muse again, I am done with the school year, and I'm going to try to be updating more often.  
> Also I have the whole story, like, outlined... so I'm not going to just leave it... Yeah, I'll be better, I promise <3


	7. VII. Circle

"Reiner, calm down," Thomas spoke through stuffed cheeks. He didn't have the time to shove the food properly into his mouth as his hands immediately attached themselves back to the controller, fumbling and professionally putting in combinations and codes with his calloused fingers.

"You fucking little turd hole," Reiner swore under his breath, screwing his thumbs into the analog stick. 

"Maybe you should consider not being bad at this game," the other boy said before letting out a couple of maniacal laughs as he finished off Reiner's beautiful character. The words announcing Thomas the winner flashed across the screen as his warrior showed off in a dance. 

"Damn, three games in a row?" Armin spoke behind them, peeking over the couch back.

"Armin, focus," Jean commanded.

"Sorry."

The orientation of furniture in Reiner's apartment was slightly awkward; there was the worn-in couch and thrift store armchairs placed in front of the wildly large television, the only thing he invested in. The dining table pressed against the back of the couch, allowing Jean and Armin room to work. Jean spread his hand over a pile of papers, separating the documents to look over them again. The dining table was cluttered with his books, maps and writings--whatever he could carry to Reiner's house, which was actually much broader and lighter than the hole he shared with Connie. Armin sat next to him, perched up on a chair with his legs folded under him, following Jean's fingers from word to word. He then reached over to open an encyclopedia at a bookmarked page, reading over again.

"We've looked at these like twenty times already," Jean groaned, squeezing his forehead in his hand. "I don't know how Marco happened to dig up the only thing that Desjean wrote about Ducasse."

"Give me the thing," Armin pointed to a piece of Jean's scribbled writing, looking like it was copied down in a hurry. "The translated thing."

Jean slid the paper over to his friend; Armin's eyes darted from side to side as he read over the information, again, rubbing his cheek in thought before speaking without looking up at Jean.

"All I'm getting from this is that they went to look at the tomb, found Ducasse's catacombs, checked inside and only found those weapons which were, presumably, covered in blood."

Jean nodded.

"That's pretty much it."

Armin rubbed parts of his face again, leaning back in his chair and tapping his small fingers on the wooden table over the papers. He titled his chin up, turning his face towards Jean.

"It doesn't really say anything about the bodies," Armin said. "Wouldn't they have seen corpses? Why would weapons lie without bodies?"

"Just because the slaves didn't say anything about the bodies doesn't mean they weren't there," Jean pointed a finger at Armin.

"You'd think that corpses would be something worthy of mentioning," Armin shrugged. "But then again, they've seen much worse..."

Jean pressed his lips together, spreading out his arms over the table, palms down. He fidgeted, thoughts relevant and irrelevant coursing through his membranes.

"Maybe they disappeared?" Armin said.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You're prepared to believe in a Muisica goddess and her abundance of treasure but not in the fact that bodies could disappear?" Armin paused to look at Jean, who fidgeted again under the stare.

"You have a point," he admitted. "Couldn't they just decay?"

"I'm not a biologist," Armin shrugged again, collecting the papers together in his hands. There was a short knock on the door, to which Reiner yelled out 'Open!' without even sparing a glance at the visitors.

"What's up, cavemen?" Connie threw the door open; it slammed into the wall and Connie immediately apologized to Reiner, holding his hands up before the beast could guilt him with his glare. Ymir was right behind him, shoving Connie forward into the room as she followed suit, kicking off her shoes on the way. Reiner knowingly handed Ymir the controller as she exchanged a couple of practiced threats with Thomas. Jean missed the words; Ymir and Thomas had an uninteresting relationship, despite the class clash.

"Take a break, man," Armin rubbed a hand on Jean's back before sliding his chair out and getting up towards the bathroom.

Jean nodded, eyes following the blonde as he retreated from the room; he turned to Connie.

"where's Sasha?"

Connie stuck his head out of the fridge, offering Jean a shrug before looking back in.

"Not sure, probably tutoring," Connie pulled a can out of the fridge and opened it. It gave an impressive snap. "Why?"

"Nothing just..." Jean rubbed the back of his head. "Need a biologist."

The legs of his chair scraped across the floor as he pushed it back; he stood, spreading his fingers over the papers and hooking them into a somewhat collected stack, he figured he will organize them later. Connie eyed his movements before offering his input.

"You leaving?" he asked before hiding his lips on the opening of the can. 

"Yeah, gonna flush some things out with Marco."

"Pfft," Ymir spat somewhere from the couch. With hard shoulders Jean twisted to receive her look. 

"In the daytime, huh, someone grew balls," Connie continued. He shuffled over to the couch, leaning on the back to check on how the game was going. Ymir and Reiner were fairly matched. 

"It'll be fine," Jean huffed, trying to desperately rub out the warm ache in his forehead. "We're not doing this same thing again, Connie," he said as privately as he could to his roommate.

"Oh, not the same thing, of course not," Connie leaned up again defensively. "Ymir's here with me on this now."

His lips fell open for a second before he connected them again, staring near-blankly at Ymir, who paused the game for the significance of the moment. Jean did not speak at first, his thoughts building together in Ymir's point of view, searching as to where she could support Connie on this. He thought that she, of all people, would understand.

"Sasha supports me," Jean shrugged.

"Sasha also accidentally tried cocaine," Connie said. 

"What is your problem with this?" he asked Ymir in a civil tone, placing his parchments back on the table.

"I don't have that much of a problem with it, really," Ymir shook her head, turning around so her body faced Jean. "I'm just worried that you're going to get your ass in trouble with the fucking elite. You're not stupid, Jean, and we're both not new to the consequences of fucking with them."

Jean crossed his arms and Ymir did the same. He listened to her words as those from an older sister, and processed them carefully through his stubbornness.

"You guys are right," Jean dropped his hands at his sides. "But I've been chasing this way before Marco came into the picture, you know that."

He watched Connie and Ymir exchange looks, a soft connection, before they listened to him again.

"Here's the deal," Jean continued. "I use what I can to reach the catacombs, because that's what this is all about, getting into the tomb. I get in, get the gold, get out, and I will not be involved with them again. Yeah?"

"'less they they get you before you get the gold," Ymir said, turning around as the pressure around them decreased.

"You have no faith in me," Jean rolled his eyes, but his mouth curved in a smile. At least this talk was out of the way, for now. He did see the need for another set of parents, this late in his development.

He turned to his items before stumbling upon Armin in the doorway, seeming like he abandoned the bathroom some time ago. He offered his blue-eyed wisdom to Jean, who was only silent as he let Armin have his moment with the conversation that he over-heard. He knew that whatever Armin thought about it was pure.

"Marco will help you," was all that Armin said.

+++

 

Jean was never a master of disguise, but the risk was too delicious to pass up as he weaved between tourists and past the only two guards that were working the bottom floor that day. He knew from past, completely coincidental, memory that Marco wasn't guiding any tourists today, so he hoped that the man would be in the basement. Not that it was their lucky spot to be anyway. 

He stepped down the stairs and towards the gate, which was locked from the inside. He wrapped his fingers around the bars, peeking into the darkness. 

"Let me in," Jean whispered through the bars to the distant light in the darkness. Marco emerged with a phone in his hand lighting his path from the weak lightbulb towards the gates; the technologic glow was seen in his pupils also.

Jean gazed down at Marco's shy cheeks at the man fiddled with the lock on the gate under Jean's scrutiny. Jean's hand pushed the gate open as soon as the lock was off, grabbing Marco's jaw and pulling him towards his own face. He brushed their lips together before hiding into the dark, away from the corridor and the stairs painted in light and watching.

"You knew I'd be here," Marco said as they walked blindly towards the place illuminated by the light bulb.

"You're not that hard to find," Jean said as he took off his hat that was wildly effective in covering his face.

Marco only responded with a laugh as they stopped a the light; Marco's disposition of his materials was much neater than Jean's, whatever maps he was using carefully perched under books, bookmarks and markings humbly peeking through the pages. 

"Look at you," Jean said, the impressed eyes giving the scene two tries. "You've been branching out. It's as if you're the one wanting to get in."

Marco let out a laugh before sitting down on his knees next to his materials. Jean invited himself to join him in the space. 

"You know, Ducasse was a downright asshole," Marco said, folding over an image of the French admiral and placing a map on top of it, brushing the nails over ink. "Left the city in ruins."

"Mhm, maybe the gold was worth it," Jean shrugged, looking at Marco and setting his chin on the man's shoulder.

"Desjean got his gold," Marco continued. "From the King."

The staring silence from Jean told Marco that he probably already knew everything that he was saying. He sighed, closing a map inside a large dictionary.

"Sorry," Marco quickly apologized. "There's no impressing you, is there?"

Jean took back, the widening gasp on his grin earning a lightening from Marco. 

"You're joking me," Jean said. "You've...impressed me enough. I mean, look at all this."

Jean waved an arm over Marco's arsenal of knowledge, the movement brushing a shadow from the light over the papers. Marco's eyes followed, his head tilted down in an unexplained saddness; this confused Jean.

"One moment I'm trying to push you away but," Jean shook his head, looking down at his hand planted firmly on the dusty floor. "You've been in it since, what, 11 years ago?"

In the silence Marco's spine shifted back. 

"You told me you didn't remember that," he said.

"I lied, it happens sometimes," Jean twitched a shoulder, whipping his head away from Marco, whose scrutinizing jaw clenched before his eyes landed on Jean's tan glowing neck up to the arch of his bottom lip. Marco shivered noticeably, before his hand crawled its way on top of Jean's, caressing softly to his elbow, pulling the man to himself. 

Jean turned just in time when Marco's lips touched his cheek. He looked up, eyelashes sweeping over the skin as they gazed at each other. Jean nodded down and went in for a kiss. Marco inched in closer, the hand grasping Jean's elbow moving a stream up to the bones in the shoulder, swiping a thumb over that glowing skin on Jean's neck, tracing blood vessels. Jean tilted his head, tongue tasting behind Marco's lips, swallowing breaths and making new sounds.

His hips rolled over to move Jean's body closer. As he was leaning on his hand, he grabbed Marco by the back of the head, refusing to release him. The arm he was leaning on turned, fingers brushing over another map. The paper sensation against the cold concrete surprised him; he pulled away, paying a brief glance to the map. Hovering a second too long on it, he let out a sudden laugh.

"What?" Marco followed Jean's eyes.

"Don't know," Jean tried to brush it off, wiping his nose. After a moment of hesitation, he said. "Always wanted to travel here, that's all."

Marco inspected the thin lines, the detailed sketching of an almost washed-out picture, but the words were concrete: Spain.

"Don't you want to go back to France?" Marco asked, looking closely at Jean again. His eyes jumped from his forehead to his mouth to the delicate lines of his hands.

"Eventually, but what's the rush?" Jean said. "There are so many places that I haven't been yet. I want to travel the world."

Marco smiled in his humble answer; he wanted to say something, anything more, say that he wanted to be there with him, from the waves of the Pacific Ocean to the winds across Belgium, exploring history again, together. But that would sound stranger out loud than in his head, so Marco locked those thoughts in the back of his head, looking down as he held his tongue.

A finger tilted his chin up; Jean read into him as if he was an intricate, freshly-discovered artifact, looking through the dust in his imperfections, the rubbed off gold. Jean kissed the corner of his mouth, placing a hand on Marco's cheek to turn the man's face closer to his. They dipped into a kiss again, bodies radiating close to each other, the softness of the light embracing them against the harsh hardness of the concrete beneath them. Marco's hand wove around to Jean's back, slipping under the shirt to steal the heat on his lower back. Jean groaned, accidentally, as to hide the sound in the past he pulled Marco by the collar of his shirt on the neck. 

When they parted Jean didn't hesitate to push Marco backwards on the shoulders; the dark-haired man sprawled out, radiating a glow off his tan skin, so precious and valuable against the crumling, old parchments under his back. Jean placed his hands on either side of Marco's head, looking a circle around him before plunging down and catching Marco, devouring his mouth with his own. His hand toyed with the ribs above his bellybutton, feeling the muscles lining the cage, the heartbeat pounding from right under. Jean pulled back, kissing the hollow of Marco's throat and teasing a trail to his shoulder and back to the skin that wasn't covered by his shirt. Marco quivered, shifting his hips up in discomfort. There were shivers running up his arms.

"I'm sorry, am I-"

"You're fine," Marco said, closing his eyes for a moment before looking up with a kind sigh. "This just isn't anything I've- oh, shit!"

Marco jolted up, putting a hand over the gasp stuck in his mouth as he stared at the flickering shadow behind the gate, slightly left open. The steps were heavy and slow, intimidating. Jean rolled off, looking at Marco for direction.

"Jean, go," he whispered harshly, but his yes resonated with defeat.

"But that's the only way out!" Jean pointed a thumb at the gate. Before Marco could offer an answer, Jean swerved his way behind clothed artifacts, weaving his way towards the back in the corner, where the darkness paired him up with dusty bookshelves. He heard Marco scramble, trip over papers, before a deep voice quaked across the walls.

"Marco?"

"I'm here, dad."

Jean pressed his head hard into the bookshelf in the back of him. He closed his eyes, letting out an even breath, trying to be as still as possible. His friends' words were spinning behind his eyes. Stay safe.

"I hope that mess you made of the upper floor produced results," the words wove down the walls.

"Yeah," the lighter voice replied. "I was looking through Bernard Desjean's writings on his expedition to the wall after Ducasse retreated."

There was a tap of the foot on the floor. Marco continued, evidently trying to maintain his voice.

"There was an entry," Marco swallowed.

"Have you figured out what that entry was saying?" 

"Yes," Marco said. Jean squeezed his eyes shut again, the feeling of a rough boulder sinking in his stomach. "It was Desjean recording their inspection of the wall. They brought back weapons covered in blood."

"That would be the crimson sacrifice, right?" the strong voice asked. "We're going to bring as many workers as we need."

"I think it's more dangerous than it seems," Marco said. "Are you really willing to sacrifice your people for this?"

Jean felt himself dissolve in the pause between the men, meshed with his guilt and anger, the need to stay still and not lose himself in the painful moment. He gripped the fabric on his chest, dropping his head. He heard two arrongant steps.

"We are drilling into the catacombs the week after next," the man stated. "You have been helpful."

There was a shuffling, like the crinkling of a suit as the arm moved at the shoulder. After a moment of senseless silence, the footsteps retreated back, getting quieter and smaller as they ascended up the stairs. 

Marco didn't move, and neither did Jean. He could hear Marco's knuckles crack as he flexed them, bones shifting in their place with the buzzing of the tiny light hanging between them, a sound Jean never before realized existed. He did not make any more sound than when the mayor was present in the room; he dropped his head between his knees, squeezing the shaved neck, knuckles yearning for a harder collision than the wood of the shelf. He tried to spit out the wrenching feeling of himself ripping from the inside out. He held his breath still. He did not move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry.  
> <3


	8. VIII. Animus Vox

"Fuckin-" a syllable cut off by the collision with the concrete. Jean looked down with a heavy glance at his knuckles, red but only pulsating, irritated as the blood underneath the skin swam faster and angrier.

"I should have _fucking_ -" the slammed a fist into the wall again. Held the knuckles there and dragged them down the wall, a weak trail of blood following arrows down the path of the hand. He unfolded his fingers and spread them across the concrete, shoving himself off and turning around, hitting his head as he dropped it back, almost unintentionally.

"What the fuck am I going to do now?" he mumbled under his nose. Looking up with eyes followed the perspective of the building at his back straight up into the sky, obstructed occasionally by the shy windowsills and the fire escape ladder. His hands were in his hair, washing over his face, grabbing at his skin; there was a screaming in his head.

"He fucking knows everything," Jean shook his head. "Everything."

It was the sunset again. Orange tone colors spilled over the sand-toned buildings and down to leak onto his face. Jean let out a whine, trying so desperately to catch onto his thoughts and fit them into their proper slots to be able to just look at what he was planning to do.

It wasn't Marco's betrayal that stung the clearest, although it was the most obvious pain of it all. Everything that he worked for over the years he felt like he dropped behind him, scattered as he sprinted out of that basement minutes after Marco's father had left. Marco tried to pick the pieces up, say anything that will make them mold together again. Jean's vision flashed over names, the riddle at the entrance to the tomb, the notification of his parents' death. It all entwined and dropped into one pool of what used to be colors became the grey. 

He's been standing at the back of the museum for almost half an hour, going through steps like ladders of anger, hurt, anger, understanding. He's been trying to fit the pieces of his life as they flew by through his mind, but the emotion threw him off track. He descended down the wall and sat on the ground, spitting at his bloody knuckles to try wipe the blood off as he rubbed it against his pants.

"Gotta," he breathed through his words. "Gotta get to the tomb," he mulled over. "Gotta get there before them."

He almost lost his balance standing up--leaning on the outer wall of the museum he walked over to a blacked-out basement window, frowning at his reflection. It spoke back, asked him what the fuck he was doing. Gearing himself toward a journey, he turned the corner to head in the direction of the market which would serve as a shortcut to Ymir's. As soon as the light was gone from behind him at the edge of the building, there were silhouettes of a couple of men sharp in the distance of his destination, scarily close to where he was. His feet dragged with a stutter as he stopped in his running track, ready to turn around and flee again. The shadows were not good omens.

"Stop! Stop!" the same deep voice was now quaking these outside walls. Jean was even more determined to reverse his steps.

"The hell I'm gonna," Jean spat through pants, already sprinting away in the opposite direction of the shadows that followed him. He cursed, looked up at the buildings, wondering if there was any path that he could follow up. He drew maps in his head which were erased by the threatening shouts of the group at his heels. 

He turned to give a quick look over his shoulder to evaluate the situation, three men, one far off and not making any effort. The way the man's face seemed so shielded by his dark bangs the moment his first saw him resembled Marco so well that Jean immediately feared it. It was not a feeling that he often carried with him, but the shaking tremble of the ironic bloodline was a weight he dragged at his toes. 

Swerving through his thoughts took his mind off his track and threw his balance off as he collided with a metal fence, a mere decoration on the golden streets of Cartagena. His face made an impressive collision with the uneven ground; he softened the blow of gravity with his shoulders. His blood marked the stones of the city once again.

"Aaagh!" he yelled out as the sharp pain slashed across his skin. Nevertheless, as soon as he felt his momentum soften, he was pushing up off the ground again, moving his knees ready to take off.

Then, there was a foot at his back and a blow to his stomach, and he felt himself collapse. 

"You're done," the hovering figure said. Jean spat the blood out of his mouth before looking up at the source of the voice. Over.

He attempted to get up again, to jump back to his feet as quickly as he could despite the aching, crawling pain across his joints and over his skin. But the sudden thundering slap to his cheek sent him down again, and he crumbled on the ground, on his back looking up at the men. The mayor took a slow step towards his body, an eerie silence fell what felt like between only the two of them as Jean watched him carefully, propping himself up on his elbows so he was not left completely vulnerable.

After a moment of quietness, the mayor spoke.

"Make this easy for both of us," he locked his hands behind his back. Jean noticed his shoulders harden and straighten out. "I want all the information that your parents had on the catacombs," he paused.

"My parents didn't have any connection to the catacombs," Jean answered back, holding back the spitting tone that was ripping from his throat.

"This is an unsightly place to have this conversation," the mayor seemed unconvinced as he averted his eyes from Jean's weakening body, motioning for his men to pick him up off the ground. They yanked him by the shoulders; Jean flinched at the prickling pains traveling across his body in forming aching bruises. He got to his feet, trying to shake off the men that had their grips on him.

"Handcuff him immediately," the mayor pointed at Jean again, refusing to even look at him. "He's a slimy one."

Jean cringed at the man's frozen voice, allowing one of the men to force his wrists into the cold metal rings. He dropped his head between his shoulders, shaking it in creeping defeat, a strange sense of deja-vu tickling his lower back. He followed the men down alleyways and, what he soon enough realized, back towards the museum. They passed the massive, familiar building; he was surprised they didn't enter it. He expected the mayor to want to show him what else he might have found there, in the artifacts, files, documents, but soon enough with bitterness realized that Marco probably already relayed everything he has told him. He clenched his fists in an automatic reaction, to which the man holding his wrists together twisted his arms painfully.

"Don't you think of anything," he growled in Jean's ear. Jean swallowed every scent of pride he had bubbling up within him, knowing this wasn't the time to fight his fight if he wanted to make it out of their arms with his head on his shoulders.

They reached an inconspicuous building, the rock of the wall crumbling at its base; they pried the gate door open and shoved Jean inside in front of them as they continued stepping with thundering echoes across the walls, through dark halls and down the stairs. He didn't have time to register and absorb his surroundings; the only light was sneaking in through the high-up windows on the corners of the room. He started to hear voices, at first kind of hushed and crawling slowly, contrasting with the frequent sounds of their group's feet on the stone. He raised his head to look around and behind but a large palm shoved his head back towards the Earth like a disobedient dog's. A creaking cage door and he was thrown onto the cold stone. As soon as the arms released him, Jean spun around and dashed back towards the entrance, only to collide with the metal bars of his prison.

"Shit!" he slammed his palms against the narrow bars, yelping in a wolf growl. His eyebrows sank to a dark, sullen expression as he looked at the people on the other side. He didn't feel anything other than what a caged animal felt. His claw screeched on the worn metal of his confinement before he let out a deep breath. He momentarily closed his eyes and stepped back, lowering his threat, standing less rabid but equally dangerous.

"Are you ready to talk?" he asked, the low tone of his voice weaving through the bars and sinking around the mayor. The man stepped forward, holding his arms locked behind his back, his shoulders wide and chin tilted up, the gaze following over the hills of his cheekbones, making sure his height was known to the animal that was starting to lose its fur.

The mayor left his sight for a minute and came back dragging a wooden chair across the floor. He placed it perfectly across Jean and sat, crossing his legs. Jean heard a faint sound of sniffling from somewhere in the room, echoing uncomfortably inside the prison, interrupting the appropriate silence.

"Let's start with 1996," the man locked his hands over a knee, rocking his ankle back and forth to the rhythm of the crying that quieted down over occasional seconds. "There was a map in the museum that Jean Baptiste Ducasse himself charted to show the details of all the crevices of the walls that were built after Drake's invasion."

"Good job," Jean rolled his eyes before looking from side to side. There was a bench with a cloth on it, a cobwebbed window doing little to the atmosphere and the richness of the air of this basement. There was a sink that hasn't been turned on for ages, the rust of the crane the only color in the damp prison.

"When you stole the map," the man spoke, leaning forward. "What was your goal?"

Jean breathed out of his nose, taking two steps back to lean on the wall. He crossed his arms and pursed his lips, cracking his neck from side to side in a disinterested manner. He wondered how long he could drag this out.

"To add to my collection," he shrugged, narrowing his eyes. "You should see what I've collected over the years."

"We have," the man shifted forward and reached towards his back pocket. Jean's heart jumped at his words, wondering exactly what he meant. "Marco never exactly mentioned anything about a copy though."

With that, he unfolded the fake document that Jean gave back to Marco at their second meeting, to replace the authentic map that he held as one of his most prized thefts. The paper was illuminated by a light coming from the side, presumably an alternative entrance or some sort of window that was out of Jean's sight. He was painting a map of this prison with every detail that his senses could record.

"Looks good with all the other garbage you're selling in there," Jean shrugged but failed to keep the bitterness from his spit.

"Now, this is the fake, right?" the man held the paper up so Jean could clearly see the document. He didn't answer back, maybe hoping to confuse, maybe hoping to irritate. In best case, both. He titled his chin up, not taking his eyes off the map, but internally swelling in pride at how beautiful of a fake he managed to create.

"I think that the main difference between copying someone's work and creating your own masterpiece is knowing exactly how many things to change," he turned the paper with an impressive swish towards himself to throw a look over it again before getting back to the prisoner.

Jean kept still and quiet, his heartbeat filling his veins and thoughts losing momentum.

"Exactly how many entrances are there to the tomb, Jean?"

The time crawled by slowly.

Jean uncrossed his arms, using his hands to help himself shift up the wall from the uncomfortable position. He didn't speak, bit his lower lip, before analyzing the mayor's actions again. The man pried his eyes into the copy of the map, his pupils jumping up and down over the parchment, with every step they circled around Jean could feel himself starting to produce the adrenaline, get more nervous, fight-or-flight. He held his instincts back, toying the line between understanding whether his silence aids him or hurts him.

"If my son neglected to tell me that you changed Ducasse's map, then I wonder what else he has managed to keep from me," the mayor's stare dug through Jean's skull right into the back of his head. Jean's lips fell apart in a small gap, surprised that Marco was not honest with neither his father nor Jean. Through this turn of information, Jean did not know what the mayor knew from Marco and what Jean could assume was the truth for both parties.

"Marco didn't know," Jean tried.

"Ignorance is not a trait that Marco possesses, unfortunately. Now let's go back to 1995," the Bodt raised his eyes again. "So sorry about that, by the way."

Jean gave a bitter grin as gratitude for the insincere condolences. He didn't think about it much. He stopped.

"The Tomb of the Cospique," the mayor stood up, pushing up off his knees. "Over the years, I wonder what your parents' bones have decayed into."

He let the men stand at guard around him as he took the key from the arm that initially confined Jean and used it to unlock the entrance into the cell. He was warned, but the words were recycled irrelevantly as the two of them stood in front of each other in the cell, with the door left ajar.

"Now, I'm also wondering how they were planning to get into the tomb we're looking for--I may name it the Tomb of Sua--through the Tomb of the Cospique."

"The two tombs have nothing to do with each other," Jean replied.

"You're quick to reply to that," the mayor let out a chuckle, looking behind him as if looking for a place to sit but after witnessing the filth of the makeshift bed, deciding against it. Jean was still at the wall, trying to mask just how much he felt like a dog at guard. "You're a damn compulsive liar, Jean, haven't you noticed? You're good at the things you hide, the thing you keep in the shadows. You've lost us a lot of money, thief."

He let the words saturate the air, yet Jean didn't feel a gram of guilt.

"The inscription was copied down in French, I think it's obvious why."

"So your monolingual ass can hire someone else to translate it, and, to be honest, I don't think I'm getting paid enough," Jean retorted, the adrenaline pumping his blood and making him careless; as soon as the tyrant mentioned his parents, the line towards caution was blurring and slowly starting to become invisible.

"The inscription that describes the crimson sacrifice, where was it found? The Tomb of the Cospique or the tomb that we're looking for itself?"

Jean shrugged, "I don't know, it was in _your_ museum, where _did_ you find it?" he lost all fear as he stepped toward the taller man.

"If we assume for a second that, since it was written in French handwriting that you immediately recognized, it was found in the tomb that your parents died in," the mayor said. "Presumably."

Jean pressed his heel into the Earth, shifting his chin up to look at the mayor with a hooded gaze.

"What exactly is the relationship between these places, the catacombs, the tombs? Your story doesn't exactly match up, Jean. Are the catacombs actually relevant if the inscription was found at the Cospique?" the mayor insisted. "What do you know that I don't?"

"A lot, probably," Jean didn't hesitate.

The mayor laughed, shaking his head, before spreading his shoulders and looking down at Jean's increasingly intimidated form. 

"Make this connection for me and you won't have to rot here until your death," the Bodt finished.

Every second of research and the time spent laminating the memories of his parents and the archaeological gifts they shared with him could have never prepared him for a moment like this, but his upbringing and the instinctual sense of independence and the wish to grasp onto his parents' findings, to keep them precious and complete his goal, finally, alone, would not allow him to cave in to the mayor's terrifying power. Even if he ripped apart the tomb, Jean knew he would not be able to come as far as he can without the knowledge that Jean holds, without what he keeps close to himself and understands better. Without understanding the divine power of the ancient ruins.

"Eat shit."

Splitting the time in two he was lightning-quick to the cage door that was left open, but the arms guarding closely at the entrance shut down his current and threw him back inside with thundering violence, past the dark shadow of the mayor. They beat him to a collection of bruises as he was left with a split lip, an aching nose and a palette of body color, the blows to his stomach resulting in vomit in the corner of his cell before his weakened body was left, abused in the cage, locked and left behind. The light disappeared as he heard the group of men slam the door behind them, the words following their exit vanishing into the cells of the other prisoners.

+++

"Proba-".."best-"..."-face he sees."

The harsh weight of his head on the stone floor finally woke him with a headache, along with a commotion taking place on the other side of the bars. His limbs were aching, every part and ending of his body screaming out for more rest, for revival. He forces his arms to bend at the elbows as he lazily pushed up off the ground, raising his head happening to be the most difficult of the tasks. The ache behind his eyes was crippling, and as he hissed at the soreness, he felt the dried blood crack around his mouth.

He groaned, turning around to welcome the light again. There were shouts and screams, footsteps somewhere far off and above him, shaking through the walls.

"Jean!"

He turned too quickly at the familiar voice, the sharp movement making him dizzy again and he was seeing stars.

"Shit, guys, he's in the basement!" Connie was screaming behind him. "You look like garbage, dude."

Jean only winced a grin as he heard someone fumbling with the lock.

"Key-" Jean said before taking a breath and coughing. "The big dude-"

"Relax," his eyes finally outlined the strong shape of Ymir's body kneeling at the lock. He couldn't see her face exactly as her skin tone was darker than the rest, but as soon as he recognized the flash of those white teeth in a smile, he heard the cage door snap open. The two friends ran in and fell to their knees to help Jean stand up.

"How the fuck did you guys..." Jean rasped as his arms were thrown over his friends' shoulders.

"Armin and Eren are keeping the guards busy," Connie said. "Thanks to Armin's chemistry major."

Jean let out a weak laugh, feeling the strength somehow start to collect in his muscles again. He needed to stretch so badly.

"As for finding you," Ymir continued answering the unfinished question. "Marco."

"Speaking of..." Connie said awkwardly as they finally stood up with Jean on their shoulders. The man felt he could stand on his feet and loosened his grip around Connie, as the boy was shorter than him and more difficult to lean on.

Jean looked up to see a hesitant Marco stand on the other side of the bars before coming into the open entryway to the cell. His eyes were wide, the dark hair falling over his forehead and getting caught on his eyelashes as he blinked.

"Keep the fuck-" Jean started, but cut himself off. "I really don't want to deal with you right-"

"Just hear him out, Jean," Ymir interrupted.

Jean shouted immediately after finally getting enough air in his lungs and keeping the cough down. "I don't need to hear _shit_ from you, your men _humiliated_ me."

"Not his men," Connie jumped in, keeping a hand on Jean's weak shoulder, silently making sure Jean didn't collapse.

"You fucking betrayed me!" Jean yelled out over his aches.

"Jean, you're going to seriously need to get over that real soon, because we've got a bigger issue on our shoulders here," Ymir spoke sternly. They heard a snort from Connie but ignored it.

"They're going to try to get to the tomb through the Tomb of the Cospique," Marco said without waiting for any more outbursts. He kept his gaze fixed on a boiling Jean, yet keeping his distance at the bars. "That means we can get there first."

"Through the catacombs," Jean nodded without erasing his glare. "You didn't tell him..."

Marco displayed a weak smile before shaking his head. He inched closer again, as a human trying to touch an angered animal.

"We need... We need equipment, I need some time to get it all together. Shit, we need-"

Marco put a hand on Jean's hair, the sudden movement stopping Jean in his train of thought and shutting him up.

"They're starting tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to chemistry majors (aka me)
> 
> Eternal apologies for taking forever to update, and eternal thanks for sticking with me!


End file.
